


Stucky Titanic AU (continued from OhCaptainMyCaptain's Original Work!)

by HoneyTheAutobot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Titanic (1997)
Genre: 1912, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Anal Sex, Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Boat, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky can't take it anymore, Bucky is 17, Comfort, Continued Story, Continued from somebody elses work, Continued on, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fingering, Finished, Forbidden Love, Freeform, Gay, Gay Romance, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, LGBT, M/M, NO DEATHS, Natasha will kick your ass, Ocean, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Queer Character, RMS Titanic, STILL IN PROGRESS, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sea, Sex, She is Russian, Ship, So Steve saves him, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve and Bucky - Freeform, Story, Stucky - Freeform, Stucky Big Bang 2016, Stucky Titanic Au, Titanic AU, Underage - Freeform, brock is about 35, bucky loves steve, captain america and winter soldier, i finished writing this for you all, lots of love, ohcaptainmycaptain titanic, steve loves bucky, steve nor bucky will die, stucky fluff, stucky romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-16 12:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15437415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyTheAutobot/pseuds/HoneyTheAutobot
Summary: So, I found this Fanfic a while back, and I just absolutely LOVED it! :) Unforutunately, I found out (after crying my eyes out), that it had been left drastically unfinished for upwards of 3 years :'(.. So, I took it upon myself to complete this beautiful work of art - for all you fans out there who were dying to know what happened next, or just how it ended, or even just to see that fabled make-out scene between two of our most beloved characters <3.. Either way, I am going to finish this for you guys, and have already written an entire chapter for you! :)(UPDATE AS OF SEPTEMBER 1ST, Family related issues are keeping me from writing at the time, but I HAVE NOT ABANDONED YOU ALL! I promise I'll be back soon!) much loves  :)





	1. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Titanic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207578) by [OhCaptainMyCaptain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhCaptainMyCaptain/pseuds/OhCaptainMyCaptain). 



> The first chapter was originally written by OhCaptainMyCaptain, and I am going to post it here :) 
> 
> . YOU HAVE TO READ THAT FIRST, IT IS THE GREATEST THING I'VE EVER READ WITH STUCKY!!!!  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> . And after that, the rest of the story was completely me :)  
> .  
> .  
> . I tried my best to immerse myself in Titanic, and carefully read her original story so I could write in her voice . . . So tell me what you think! :) 
> 
> PLEASE COMMENT! Please! You have to let me know what you think, otherwise I won't have any motivation to keep going! :)  
> .  
> . PLEASE COMMENT AND TELL ME IF I SHOULD CONTINUE :) THANKS :) :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, everybody! As promised - I won't leave you hanging! :)   
>  I used to wonder why everybody always apologized at the beginning of their notes, and I used to get a little miffed at them when they did . . . but now, upon becoming an author myself, I realize why they did XD   
> .  
>  So, I do apologize to all of you who patiently waited on me so long! It took me a while, but I still got it completed within the two weeks! :) :) I think this one may be a little shorter, but not by much. It's still got about more than 15,000 words, so . . . Hope you enjoy it!! :) :)   
> .  
>  REMEMBER TO COMMENT WHAT YOU LIKE, OR IF THERE'S ANYTHING YOU'D LIKE ME TO ADD! Comments keep me going!! :) Much loves!   
>  Enjoy! <3 <3 <3 :)

Bucky awoke by himself the next morning, before the sun had even risen into the sky. 

There was no light coming through the curtains, the sky still a deepened purple. He guessed it must have been quite early, but didn’t know what time it was, and (quite frankly) he was too lazy to roll over and try to squint at the small clock on the other side of his room on the mantel. Besides, he couldn’t sleep anymore . . .

Not that he had very much as it were. 

His mind had raged war upon his mind for the duration of most of the night, and his eyes were still swollen from sleep deprivation; a prominent sheen of red dusted upon them. Images and scenes of Brock had haunted him for hours and hours upon end, and his inevitability that was chasing him, gaining momentum, gaining speed, gaining on him. God, how he hated that man! He found himself wishing that Brock would suddenly just up and die. Just keel over. Choke on a piece of lobster, get stabbed accidentally with a fork, have a heart attack, something, anything, anything for Pete’s Sake! Just simply so he wouldn’t have to be trapped in an endless cycle with him for the rest of his days, much less the fact that that man was just a waste of oxygen that some poor sap somewhere int eh world was giving up. To think of all the work that trees put into the world, just so people like Brock can waste it all in useless, meaningless words. 

Bucky sighed as he gazed at the floral printed curtains from his side. His left arm was beginning to tingle from no circulation, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep anytime soon . . . So, with a lazy grumble, he threw the covers off of his body and pushed himself into a comfortable sitting position, rubbing the nape of his neck softly; feeling the little prickle of hair starting to grow back in from where he had recently gotten it styled and cut from a local barber just days before. 

But soon as upon sitting, scenes from what had transpired the night before drowned his mind as if the floodgates had burst. 

How he had cried; how he had forced himself to go to the dinner; how he had been seen as only an utter fool by everyone there, much less everyone on this godforsaken ship, no doubt; how he had been unable to fight for himself any longer when the endless cycle he had been caught up in washed over him, like a tide pulling him deeper and deeper and deeper into the hollow half-shell of misery; how Brock had such a hold on him, and that of his mother; how no one could see him, or hear his silent cries for help; how he had ran to the third deck; how the night air had been so cold against his skin, but he hadn’t been able to feel it; how he couldn’t seem to breathe; how his lungs had just suddenly seemed incapable of providing for him any longer; the panic, the fear, the anger; how he had felt the end of his world drawing nearer and nearer; how he had climbed over the bars; how he had felt as if there were nothing left for him on this world, his soul gone, vanishing into the night wind, and the sea breeze that called him to fall deep into the bottomless pit of an endless abyss, and wishing, wishing, wishing that everything would just stop and go all away . . . 

And then Steve. 

That beautiful, blue-eyed blonde who had shown up like a very angel himself at the last second, to pull him back. 

He popped into his mind suddenly, then, too.

How Steve had appeared out of nowhere, and how he had very well saved his life by talking him off the ledge – literally. How he had seemed so concerned, and scared, and timid and shy, and treated Bucky with the care and respect like he was an actual human, rather than just an object; as if he actually cared about his well-being – even when he had blatantly disobeyed his orders, and stuck around after Bucky had yelled at him to leave. How he had given him that smile . . . a smile that seemed to melt away the cold night itself. 

Bucky found himself laughing silently and humorlessly to himself at the prospect. 

Pssh, he chided bitterly, who wouldn’t have done that for someone who was going to jump off the side of a boat? 

Your mother, his brain provided the answer all too soon.

Brock. Howard. Schmidt. And anyone else he knew . . . they would have probably helped him off the ledge, alright – but only because it would have reflected badly on them, or because they wanted a story to tell later on to show off that they had been the ones to save him.

But Steve? The way he had walked, the way he had talked, the way he had smiled at him, smiled at his shattered soul . . . Bucky knew that Steve didn’t do it for any of those reasons. 

He had done it for something else . . . something that Bucky found he couldn’t place. 

And he let that sit in his mind for a moment, simmering on it, mixing it, tasting it. It put a warmth in the deepest pit of his belly, and he couldn’t exactly argue that it wasn’t pleasant. That man, that name . . . it sparked something deep inside of him. Something that felt as if it should be almost familiar, yet was anything but. 

Bucky took in a sharp breath, rising to his feet; shaking his head as he walked around the room. He put his full palms over his eyes, now, as he took small strides, ending up making an oval before he had come back round to the side of his bed again. What was that? What was that feeling? That . . . that . . . feeling? What else was there to call it?

Gratitude? 

No.

Appreciation? 

No. 

Of course, he felt all those things and more . . . but it was the ‘and more’, that he found he couldn’t place. It wasn’t anything he was familiar with at all. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was something completely new. That he didn’t have a category in his head for this feeling. It wasn’t bad, and it wasn’t good; it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t wrong . . . it was its own thing. And It nearly mirrored curiosity, but on a much grander scale. Curiosity . . . and something akin to interest. 

Yes! That was it. Interest. What a perfect word, he thought to himself. Though it wasn’t a perfect description, it fit close enough for the time being until he could ponder it further. 

Interest. 

Had he truly taken interest in that man? Perhaps it wasn’t the right word after all . . . Perhaps it was . . . no, no it had to be. Otherwise, why would he have gone to such great lengths to invite him to dinner? Why go so far to prove a point to Brock that he knew he could never prove no matter how hard he tried? Why go so far to try and embarrass him? Was it merely for the reason to prove a point to his soon-to-be-husband? To drive home a dagger that had never been in Bucky’s hand to begin with? 

Or had there been another reason entirely that he had overlooked himself? 

He didn’t like the direction his thoughts had taken. IT was too much. Too dangerous. He shook them off with a grumble and a rub to his eyes; using the palms of his hands as if trying to squish away the very thoughts themselves from his skull with mere pressure. 

It didn’t work. But he couldn’t say he didn’t try. 

He glanced at his window again, seeing a small, small light through the curtain. The sky was finally turning a light shade of purple. It was getting later and later in the morning, and soon, the others would be awake. That thought distracted him, at least – but gave him another one to obsess over, instead. 

Brock. He was going to have to face him today, at some point. 

Oh, God . . . he thought, sickened by the prospect. His stomach actually did a flip, flopping the landing with a sickening squelch in his gut. He really, really didn’t think he could handle seeing him right now, just as Brock being himself, much less knowing that he would have to deal with whatever punishment the older man would decide to deal out at him for his irrational behavior the night before. No . . . maybe he could avoid it. Maybe he could find something else to do to avoid him . . . what, all day? What could he possibly find to distract himself with all day, that Brock couldn’t just simply waltz through and rip him away from? Oh, you’re such a child, Bucky! He scolded himself internally. You made the decision, and no one can save you from the consequences. 

No one can save you, anyway. 

And besides, what was there to do on this goddamn ship, than sit around and talk, talk, talk, talk, talk about nothing? The ship of dreams . . . Ship of dreams his ass. It was a prison cell. Even now. 

And Bucky knew that no one this side of the ocean could convince him otherwise. 

And feeling that only made him want off the ship all the more, and he was again reminded of the night before, and how he had wanted to die, and about now how he refused to make that his only option when his dear sister loved him so much . . .

His mind was an endless, chaotic cycle – a deathly circle he seemed to be caught up in, twirling around in the smoke and mirrors surrounding him on all sides; and he could feel the inklings of anxiety start to seep in through his veins . . . 

He needed something . . . a break. Fresh air. A walk. Something to distract him, and clear his head again. But he couldn’t just up and leave, and go just anywhere on the ship; he knew that well enough. He wasn’t exactly free just to roam about aimlessly – people would question. He would have to think of a reason for his wandering . . .

Or did he? I mean, who was to stop him if he were just to walk around? Why would anyone care, or notice? No one saw him as it were anyway.

No one cared. 

No one except for Steve, it seemed like. 

Bucky’s eyes lit up.

Steve. Of course! There it was! The excuse, staring him plainly in the face. He had never gotten the chance to thank him for saving him – not properly at any rate. And what better reason would Bucky have for straying that far down the ship, other than to thank the man that saved his life? 

Yes. Yes! It was perfect! Bucky’s face straightened into a look of determination. It was settled then. He was going to go for a walk to clear his head, get some fresh air, and find that man to thank him without a crowd around – as he had lost that chance thanks to Brock. And not only would he be able to thank him, but have a chance at avoiding Brock for the duration of the morning, and avoid his mother before she awoke, and just avoid everyone and everything until later. He knew that no one of his upper class dared even a glance at the lower decks, so who would come then to find him? 

It was an escape within confinements, however small, and however brief it may be – but Bucky knew he needed this more than anything. And why shouldn’t he jump on this chance while it was here? Who knew when the next one would arrive, if ever. 

The doorknob to his room suddenly jiggled around, and Bucky’s heart flew to his throat; all color leaving his face and his breath knocked clean from his lungs as he jerked his neck with a loud ‘pop!’ to stare in silence at the door. Had anyone seen him, he could very well have given Michelangelo’s David a run for his money as a piece of earthen stone. 

Oh, God, what, had Brock suddenly learned to read minds during the night? 

Bucky considered it. 

But when the doorknob rattled again, and the crisp voice of a young woman rang true, Bucky’s heartrate settled back down and he released his breath again. 

“James? Are you in there? Are you alright?” 

Never had Bucky been so relieved to hear Virginia’s voice in all of his life, nor did he think he ever would again. 

He hadn’t realized that he had remained silent until the doorknob rattled again, and her question was repeated, albeit a little more panicked. He was quick to snap out of his stupor and clear his throat. 

“Yeah! Yes, yes. I’m in here. I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure? Then . . . why-? Why is your door locked?” 

Bucky sighed, taking a few long strides over to the door to allow his maid entry. Great, he thought. Now how am I supposed to sneak away? She’ll see me! 

The heavy door swung wide, and her eyes were serious as they gazed over him. 

“I, er . . . guess I must have locked it by mistake. Sorry.” Bucky half apologized with an attempt at a smile. He didn’t feel that it failed too badly this time, but the look upon Virginia’s face said otherwise. 

He could see very clearly that she knew he was lying, and that she was trying desperately to see through it, to go over in her mind everything that had happened before to see if she could spot a missing piece or a pattern . . . but in the end, she couldn’t. Just as she always couldn’t, and accepted it. Though, Bucky noted, she didn’t smile this time. 

Maybe she could feel something more? 

Was she already on to his sneaking plans? How could she have been, he thought to himself. I haven’t even fully thought about them yet! 

“I was just coming to prepare your things for when you woke up, but I see that you must have beat me to it.” 

There was her smile . . . half forced. 

Bucky tried to return it again for the second time, pulling this one off much better. “Yes. I’ve, er . . . I’ve been awake for a while.” He wanted her to leave, really, really bad – he wanted to go out and get some air. He wanted to take his walk, and the longer she stayed, the more chance he had of his mother finding him – or worse, Brock. But at his words, Virginia’s eyes went wide and she entered the room. “Oh, my – I do apologize then! I didn’t mean to be so long, I was trying to get ready and did my best to hurry, I--”

But Bucky cut her off with a wave of his hand, closing the door behind them both and sliding the lock into place again – just in case. “No, no, it’s not you. I just . . . I couldn’t sleep, was all. It’s not your fault. I promise.” 

But she didn’t seem to hear him, already going over to the bed and straightening out the sheets. “But I really should have been in here sooner, I am so sorry--”

“Virginia.” He tried again more seriously, finally catching her attention. She gazed up at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise.” Bucky was suddenly shocked to realize that he was almost happy she had come in there to see him – though why, still perplexed him. Hadn’t he just wanted her gone not five seconds before?   
“Really. You didn’t miss anything, you’re not behind . . . and you can trust me not to say a word to anyone. You’re not even late, so why would I?” 

He didn’t know why he was taking such liberties to prove to her that he wasn’t cross with his service, and even threw in a touch of sincerity to his voice. It wasn’t faked by no means, it was just unusual. He couldn’t care less what the other maids thought of him, being a rude, pompous brat or not – but he cared what Virginia thought of him. Virginia above all others, and he found that he didn’t want to take it out on her as hard as the others. After all, it wasn’t her fault he felt that way. She was just doing her job. 

“Well, I still should have been here sooner, regardless if you were awake or not. But I thank you for your generosity.” Her words were programmed, he knew, but her eyes were sharp as knives; clearly running over him for any seam left that would provide her a split, a crack in the façade, for which she could see the real reason behind his actions, and peel away his layers. She knew that it was rather odd for him to be speaking like this too. 

But Bucky had learned the trades of his game well over the years, especially the last one in particular, and therefore had hidden them only all too well. He appeared perfect, and well-held together to the untrained eye. Appeared, so much in fact, that he himself was almost convinced sometimes that all of this just wasn’t a big rigamaroo running about in his head. 

But Brock always proved that theory incorrect. One of the only uses for him. 

“You know what, why don’t you just go ahead and take the day off?” Bucky found himself speaking before the words had even really gone over in his mind. He knew his face must have matched Virginia’s of open shock. If she hadn’t thought something was wrong before, she really did now. 

“I – er, you – It’s – wh – huh?” She very rarely, if ever, ran out of professionalism; had Bucky actually made her incoherent? 

But as much as he hadn’t thought much of the words, he realized with a quick beam of satisfaction that he meant them. A hundred percent. 

“Yeah. Yes. I mean it. Take the day off.” He repeated, meeting her gaze head on. Her mouth remained open as he continued, only dropping wider and wider. “Go and enjoy yourself. Explore the upper decks, get a drink, visit the stern, anything you want to do. I mean, how many times are you gonna get to travel on this boat, either? Just go and enjoy yourself for the day.” 

Virginia’s face could get no more shocked. He knew she must literally almost not believe what she was hearing. Her childlike side that Bucky had only seen on the rarest of occasions flashed across her face in the slightest smile for a mere instant; clearly thinking of all the things she had been wanting to do for the past day and a half, before it was replaced with that of the working maid he had come to know over the years. It almost broke his heart to see it leave so quickly, though why, he didn’t know. 

But he knew he wanted to see it again. 

“I . . . that’s so – I mean, you--” Stammering around a little, she closed her eyes and cleared her throat, holding a hand to her chest before looking back up him. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and Bucky knew she had been fully caught off-guard. “I appreciate that very much, James,” 

“Bucky.” He corrected her softly. 

She smiled. “Bucky,” She amended, “but I can’t just . . . just waltz around when you pay me to work for you.” She tried to play off a chuckle, “I have a job. I have to take care of you, I have to--”

“Virginia.” He stopped her before she could get any farther. He was almost confused as to why he was trying so hard to talk her into this suddenly, but blamed it on the fact that he wanted an excuse to go out to the lower decks, where she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about his plans. Yes . . . that was it. 

. . . Wasn’t it? 

“Please.” 

Her eyes met his and she was silenced. And for the first (and probably last time, he knew), Bucky let a little bit of just why he had chosen to lock the door show on his face. He allowed something other than his ‘default emotion’ come into play, and allowed her a momentary peek into his broken soul. He openly begged her, albeit however silently, and allowed a shred of his true self show – just one time. He wanted her to understand why he needed her to go, and take the day off, and understand why he was trying to be so kind to her. And right now, that was the only way he could think to do it. 

And apparently, it worked clear enough, for she took an entire step back and let in a small gasp. 

“Please . . . just do that. For me.” 

And upon seeing his pained expression, upon seeing the soliciting and imploring gleam in his eye, and having known him for how many years and knowing that he had never, not once, showed her any side of him like this – she was nodding minutely before he had even finished speaking. Her face shifted so quickly into something questioning, to something concerned. Something that suddenly had a light of understanding go off somewhere behind her eyes, as somebody who knew a lot more than she let on and just had her suspicions confirmed. 

Bucky could have openly sighed with relief (unless he actually did) when she finally agreed. “Alright, then.” 

“Effective immediately,” Bucky clarified, though he knew there was no need. He grinned back at her when she finally broke down with a true smile, and he added, “No backing out of it.” 

She laughed a little, shaking her head. “Yes. Yes, alright.” 

Bucky reached out to grab the door handle and unlock it softly, quietly, before dramatically gesturing her exit – doing so in such a silly little fashion, it surprised himself. Why was he being so nice? 

Virginia made her way towards the door, but stopped short just before stepping outside – turning to face him, “But, wait! Are you sure you don’t want me to--”

“Yes. I’m sure.” Bucky interrupted, giving her a light shove on her upper shoulder to push her out of the room. 

“But you don’t even know what I was going to say!” She argued with a grin. 

“Its like I always say, Miss Potts – I am human just as you are, which means I am perfectly capable of doing everything you can. I can manage. I’m fine, thank you.” 

“Well . . . I just . . . If you’re absolutely sure?” She tried one more time, smiling at him; testing the waters. 

Bucky returned the smile – for real, this time – and gave her a nod. And she knew then that it was safe to speak; if only this once.

If he could let his guard down one time . . . 

 

“Bucky,” She stopped him with a hand on the door before he had closed it completely. 

She paused for only a fraction of a second, hesitant, but knowing raging bright in her eyes. “I know that it’s not my place, and that I can’t ask of any details, or offer you much more help than what my position admits . . . but . . .” She sighed, and Bucky found that he was immensely curious as to what she was about to say. 

“I just . . . I want you to know, that . . . that someone out there does care for you . . . I, care for you.” She offered a smile, then. “Even when it seems like people don’t see anything, or don’t know anything about what’s going on in the world around them . . .” 

Bucky was enthralled on her every word, her every breath; his soul dying to hear what she was about to say next. 

She eyes ran back and forth, left to right, over his. She nodded, just barely enough to be seen. “They do.” And she paused again. “I do.” 

And though she may not have known what it was exactly that he was trying to escape, she could easily see that he was asking her for a day to himself, and for her not to share what he was doing with anyone else. She wasn’t stupid, and Bucky knew that, not with the way that she was able to read into so much of his mind when he never said a word.

“And so, does a great many other people, I know. And . . . I wish, beyond a thousand times, that I could do more for you than just wait around, and carry your luggage around, and press and fold your clothes, and set your items about for you, arranging them on a table . . .” 

Bucky could hardly believe her words. He could hear his own thoughts in her voice, and knew then that she was telling him that she had been able to see all that . . . Able to see his silent words he had yelled in his mind for all this time . . . His heart ached, suddenly, inexplicably. 

“And I just want you to know that your . . . situation . . .” She was shaking her head, slowly, softly, now, “isn’t invisible.” 

Bucky’s breath caught then, and it equally felt both parts good and frightfully scary at the same time. He knew very well what she was implying; knew right then that she really did know some of his misery, and wanted to do something about it, but couldn’t. 

And Bucky suddenly found he loved her for that. 

He smiled softly at her, fully and whole-heartedly this time, thanking her silently with a nod as he closed the door and allowed her to walk down the halls in peace.

Her words played over and over in his mind. And suddenly, he felt another emotion that should have been familiar but was only all too foreign. 

Joy. 

He was suddenly so elated, so excited, so rejuvenating – that he was ready in an instant; throwing on his clothes for the day before he even knew what was happening, and combing his hair back just as the sky was fully shifting into a shade of a bright-ish blue and the sun’s rays were almost wanting to peer above the horizon to see just where they’d end up that morning. 

His whole morning had just shifted for the better – and he didn’t know where this sudden stroke of luck had come from, whether it be from the universe or God Himself, but he wasn’t about to let it go to waste. 

And making sure that he was out before his mother or sister could find him, or otherwise stop him, he was out his door in an instant – because, by golly, if this was one of his last free days, he was going to spend it however he wished, though he knew that in and of itself was too much to ask – making his way down the overly decorated halls of the enormous ship, finding his way to the e-deck as soon as possible, and hoping beyond hope (for that same unnamable reason that he’d yet to identify within his mind) that he would find that blonde out there today. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

 

“No, no, no! It wasn’t like that!” 

Steve called out, half-exasperated and half-beet red from embarrassment at the endless torrent of teasings from his friend. 

The icy, ocean breeze this morning flicked little specks of the salty water up onto them both, leaving little miniscule dots of water to dry in the sun upon his paper. Gripping his pencil tighter than he knew was healthy for his sketching, Steve was unable to bring his gaze up to meet Sam’s – who he knew was watching him very, very carefully. The air was cold enough to send shivers up his spine – but not enough to cool his heated cheeks. 

It had always been relatively easy to make Steve blush or otherwise turn red, and Sam personally never tired of it. 

“Oh, oh, no? It wasn’t?” Sam stretched nearly every word out until it was thinner than the paper in the blonde’s hand as he squinted playfully at the man. 

“Mm-mm.” Steve confirmed; pretending to be otherwise utterly and wholly occupied by the suddenly-interesting rope and pole he had taken to drawing out this morning. His movements were rigid, and aimless; and he wondered how visible it was to someone who wasn’t an artist themselves. Probably pretty obvious. 

He messed up yet again, and rubbed away the extra line with his thumb. 

“Then, do shed some light, Mr. Rogers, and pray tell us all – just what was it like?” 

Steve smiled to himself, only laughing when he went to answer, jerking his gaze over finally to shush him. Sam had grown rather loud and obnoxious during their talk, and Steve wasn’t sure if this was a subject so openly discussed, much less so soon. “Shh!” He reprimanded. “Not so loud! It wasn’t even supposed to have happened, remember?” 

“Oh, like anyone’ll know what we’re talking about! You still ain’t answered my question yet.” 

Steve was caught, and smiled sheepishly again, spinning his neck back around so that he was facing the rope again, though his mind was anywhere on but on his work. “I . . . he, er, I . . . I can’t tell you.” 

“Oh, ho, ho!” Sam barked out a laugh, throwing his neck back so dramatically that Steve thought he may fall off his seat from the bars and onto the deck beneath them. “Oh, okay. Okay. Yeah. Sure. I see how it is.” His colored gaze wandered out to the ocean, nodding softly. “So, you just magically got invited to this fancy-pants dinner, up in the higher decks, with these higher-classes of people, just up and out of the blue?” 

Steve was quiet. 

“Just because you had shown up at the right time, for God-knows-what kind of spectacle.” 

“Yyyyyy . . . yep.” Steve nodded, his blush deepening.

Sam would have bought anything else but that cockameemee excuse Steve seemed so bent on feeding him. Besides, even if his friend wouldn’t share the exact details, Sam couldn’t really complain that he wasn’t enjoying this little moment between them. It wasn’t very often that he got an opportunity to poke at him like this, and quite honestly, he was having the time of his life – trying to listen closely to see if Steve would break or crack or crumble under the pressure, and give him an insight into just what had happened the previous night. 

So har, it had proved unfruitful, however fun. 

“Nothing . . . nothing happened . . .” Steve smiled, finally trying to get his feelings back under control enough to turn and face Sam. His friend grinned mischievously at him. “I came out here, I saw him, introduced myself – properly, this time – almost got myself thrown overboard . . . but other than that though, nothing happened! Really.” He may have even gotten father away than he had before with that lie – had he not tried to smile. 

Steve had a poker face like nothing you’d ever seen – but as soon as you brought emotion into it, it fell flat as a deflated balloon. 

Sam held his hands high in the air, feigning surrender. “Alright. Alrighty, then. That’s fine, Loverboy. Keep your secrets, your entitled to ‘em. Hell, I got enough of my own.” 

“No, Sam, come on!” Steve grinned, though still unable to look any further over than a piece of tattered cloth that adorned Sam’s knee. “I said it wasn’t like that! I’m not . . .” he hesitated, and finally decided on an giving him an answer that revealed little without revealing much. “I . . . Believe me, I want to tell you! I want to share everything with you, and it’s not that im lying . . . it’s just . . .” He sighed, and shifted his gaze to the ocean around them; a faraway look coming into his eyes. 

Sam took note of it, but remained silent – watching Steve’s expression soften and his brows lift as he replayed the new memory over in his mind. His own brows softened when he saw that look in his eye . . . when he saw that rare little glow form in the deepest parts of his soul. The glow that Sam had only had the privilege of seeing as many times as he had pinky fingers on his left hand. 

“It’s just . . .” His voice became a caress; a soft whisper, fading into the wind blowing about them both. “It’s not my secret to tell.” 

It was quiet then for a second, and Steve looked over at Sam again. The man was wearing a real smile for him, now, and just simply shook his head. 

Steve knew very well that Sam knew that he was cornered, and knew he knew well-enough that Steve wasn’t about to give up such a secret that he thought was this big. That was the core of their relationship – trust. They knew that if the other was keeping a secret, it wasn’t anything bad; they just weren’t ready to share it yet. 

But that didn’t stop Sam from having just a little more fun. 

“Loverboy.” Sam coughed into his hand, feigning innocence and widened eyes, “Oh, my – oh, I just don’t know where that came from.” He thumped his chest with a clenched fist, pretending to clear out any blockage in his sternum. “’Scuze me.” 

Steve laughed again, his cheeks going bright red all over again as he grinned, knowing full well what he was implying. As one of his closest and only friends, Sam knew the truth about Steve. The truth that he had to keep hidden to keep himself safe in a world like theirs – about who’s company he actually preferred to that of the ladies. And Sam had never been anything but accepting and supportive of the entire thing, and for that, Steve was ever grateful, knowing that people like him were few and far in between . . . if there were even any others. Most days it felt like God had, in fact, made a mistake, and that he was the only one . . . but deep down in his heart, he knew himself to well to wallor in his own puddle all day. He could *feel* that there were others out there like him . . . somewhere. 

So, for him to only poke and make a joke about it, only made Steve all the happier – Sam only did that when he was pleased. And clearly, this story of meeting Bucky and getting invited to this dinner had tickled him pink. Though as to why, Steve was ever oblivious. Perhaps it was just because Sam never had gotten a proper opportunity to tease him about someone? It wasn’t like there had been very many girls who’d provided a chance, so maybe it was just because Sam missed the days of poking at his yesteryear friends and the girls they had tried to court, and Steve was only all too easy a target. The only target, at the present moment. 

They talked some more while Steve sketched, the artist finally finding a live subject that consisted of the most intriguing pair of arms Steve had ever thought he’d seen in his life, and trying to get them out on paper before they disappeared again – when Sam finally brought up another topic besides that ‘rich boy’. Though it was the same general area of topic, Sam had shifted the conversation to fit himself, asking finally about the beautiful Russian they had met the night before. 

“So . . . what do you think my chances are with that Romanoff gal?” And it was him this time that refused to meet Steve’s gaze, suddenly becoming interested in the way the waters moved and bobbed about. 

Steve barked out a disbelieving laugh, nearly enthralled finally in getting the draw the very tips of the fingers, and the veins and the freckles just above the wrist . . . and Sam jerked his gaze back over to him. 

“Oh, ha, ha, ha. Laugh it up, Rogers.” Sam chided, smacking his leg. “You just know that I have a better chance than you and that Barnes-Boy.” 

“Sam!” Steve looked around them to be sure that they weren’t heard before giving him a knowing look. “That’s not . . . you just need to . . .” He sighed and stopped speaking when his live subject was suddenly up and leaving, taking those beautiful arms with them. With his heart aching at yet another unfinished piece that was to sit and lay in his sketchbook for the remainders of eternity, he tightened his lips as snapped his sketchbook shut and turned around, tightening his lips, but failing. “Just shut up.” 

Sam laughed at Steve’s inability to speak, and Steve tried to distract his brain from the many, endless supply of images that had sprung up in his mind at Sam’s words. They were very . . . interesting thoughts, so to speak . . . but they were nothing a good man should ever think, much less a man who had no right to think them in the first place! And it both made a fire grow deep in his belly and alarms go off in his head. His cheeks were bright red again before he could stop them, and he tried to think of something else to do to distract him – even if drawing thus far had been a naught. 

He tried to find something else to sketch out as Sam took out a cigarette from his jacket and stroke up a match to light the tip; inhaling deeply and savoring the smoky, burnt flavor of cheap tobacco as he watched Steve glance around. He knew the look in his eye all too well, could tell when Steve was trying desperately to find something out of need to draw, or trying desperately out of need distraction. 

It was quite amusing, but only to one who had known him. 

Steve’s eyes scanned the upper and lower decks, searching in vain while waiting for something to become more interesting to draw than the suddenly smiling, shirtless figure of Bucky that had popped into his head. 

He wondered what his skin really looked like, and if it were that pink and plush and soft and perfect all the way down to his belly, and lower . . .

Steve could feel a surge of heat light up his face again, and stopped his thoughts; clamping his eyes shut as he continued to walk around the same few spaces over and over again; Sam looking on in pure amusement. Not only was it wrong to think like that, but it was wrong to think it especially of such a young man, and of one who obviously couldn’t – and wouldn’t – ever dream of anything that wanted to run through Steve’s head. He suddenly felt guilty – he knew better than to even allow his mind to think even that far, as to have seen any skin. It was wrong. He didn’t know that man, he didn’t have any connection to him . . . He didn’t feel right at all thinking those thoughts, and he didn’t usually pleasure himself by sitting around and doing so – so he wasn’t sure just where they had sprung up from, but he knew better than to think on them anymore. 

He pursed his lips and sighed. Sometimes, though – he really did feel like he was the only one of his kind. 

That seemed to kill the thoughts. 

Not quite in the way that he had wanted, though. 

He looked up, hands on the bars and body facing the open ocean. The sun was coming up, and there was a crystal-clear sky today – and it was that that finally caught him and stopped his mind from running down any darker paths of either self-pity, or otherwise. He was finally able to breathe. 

It was beautiful. 

Not a single cloud littered it, and Steve hadn’t even realized yet that he was actually thinking on something other than Bucky for the first time since last night. And in that moment, he found himself wishing again that he could have sketched out the beauty, and serenity of the scene before him, of the where the sky met the waters, and how the lines blurred together so beautifully that even a master craftsman could tell no more where either began or ended. And how the sun’s rays reflected on the atmosphere, causing shards of brilliant shades of oranges and yellows to be cast upon the watery world before them, tinged with white on its reflections and casting an amazing, astounding glow that he knew he could capture if he only had the tools with him to do so, even if he knew the sky would only stay ever changing; it would stay the same no longer than it would have taken him to pour paint from a bottle (imagine being able to afford real paint!) before its colors had shifted into something entirely different. It was like watching a real, live art picture-show. And it took his breath away every morning. 

He was mesmerized by the serenity of it all, the smallest of smiles weaving its way up and across his lips; tugging them higher, and higher, like a sweet, candied rope. 

“Speak of the devil.” Sam suddenly uttered out, just loud enough to be heard as he took a big puff, and Steve was brought back from his artistic daydreams, back to the real world, where, when he turned his head to follow Sam’s gaze, saw a very familiar figure striding towards him. 

His shooting star – without a hat, this time. 

Steve’s heart jumped. 

Bucky Barnes could easily be seen, weaving his way through the small throng of people mingling around the boat, walking straight towards them both; a determined expression on his face; his shoulders rigid and hard. His hair was carefully styled into a smooth front, but without gel. Steve noted immediately that it looked only brushed and done simply with a comb – not that it deterred any from his looks . . . the man was still nigh perfect. 

Their eyes met, and Steve flashed him a smile without even trying (because he was trying to settle his heart rate back down). 

Bucky’s eyes seemed a little less pained today . . . though it wasn’t much and he still had that certain air about him, something about his mood had shifted. He was already close as it were, and Steve was only all too willing to throw his sketchbook under his arm and turn his attention fully to the approaching boy. 

Why on earth was he coming back out there today? 

. . . and why on earth was he coming right towards him? 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bucky drank in Steve’s smile – one of the only things in his life right then that seemed so pure; so innocent; so nice; suddenly finding that he thought he’d never made a better decision than to come out and find him, even if only to thank him. He walked ever closer, finally closing the space between them, leaving only a few feet. 

“Good morning.” Steve greeted him, straightening his stance; his smile never faltered. The pale sunlight that had only just risen over the horizon’s line glinted wonderfully off his face.

Bucky abruptly discovered that he wanted to smile back at him, wanted to suddenly try very hard to be friendly – though, he realized, it was a lot easier than he originally thought it would be. He didn’t hardly even really have to try. His shoulders that had been rigid, softened; his hardened composure he’d taught to uphold for the duration of his life, relaxed; and the smile that had been trapped somewhere deep in the confinements of his body, broke free. He breathed. 

And sure as hell, you could bet that Rogers was the first to see it. 

“Good morning.” He greeted back, their eyes yet to leave the other. 

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Bucky heard the honest curiosity in Steve’s voice as he cocked his head. “This usually isn’t the deck for people of . . . your status,” His brows furrowed playfully, “unless its for a repeat of last night?” 

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The boy quickly corrected, but Steve had latched onto something more playful, smirking. 

“Because, my offer still stands. I’ll still jump right in after ya if I need to.” 

Bucky let out a small chort of a laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve no doubt you would.” His flowing, brown hair was starting to get somewhat tousled in the wind. “You’re crazy remember?” 

“So, everyone tells me.” Steve shrugged, their gazes locked. 

With a clearing of his throat, Sam reminded everyone of his presence behind them, causing Steve to jerk his head around and catch him off-guard. Bucky was instantly curious as to who this stranger could be, nearly recognizing him, but not quite. Hadn’t he been out there the very first time he’d met Steve? 

“Oh! Um, yeah, this is, er . . . Bucky, allow me to introduce you to one of my closest friends, Sam Wilson.” He waved Bucky over as the young boy reached out to clasp the colored man’s hand in a firm, yet solid shake. 

“Yeah, more like *only friend*” Sam chuckled. 

“Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson. Sam Wilson,” There was only the slightest pause that James picked up on when Steve righted himself and glanced at him, “Bucky Barnes.” 

“How do ya do?” Sam nodded politely. 

Bucky simply nodded back without response, rising back up to his full height. But Sam’s eyes stayed on him – well, mostly. His gaze was flicking continuously from him to Steve. It almost made Bucky feel uncomfortable, and feeling the need to defend himself, asked a little too harshly, “What? Do I appear funny to you?” 

“Hmm? Oh, no, no. Not at all, I’s just . . . Just thinking, ‘Wow, you must be him.” 

Bucky missed Steve’s eyes shoot wide open, instead furrowing his brows in confusion at his words. What the heck? What did that mean? Steve had told this man about him already? That thought both was elating . . . and terrifying. 

And Sam must have only seen the look on his face, for he smiled and further continued to elaborate, adding, “Oh, it’s just that Steve has told me so much about you.”

Bucky also missed Steve start to wave his hand over his throat in several quick motions (as, every time Bucky would think he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, Steve would abruptly let his arm fall again). He had? What had he said? What was there to say? It wasn’t as if Bucky was the perfect topic for any sort of interesting conversation, unless it were to be some sort of correction. 

Bucky turned to look at Steve, opening his mouth to question him, but before he got the chance to say anything, Sam cleared his throat again and made a hearty, dramatic gesture of rising to his feet; jumping off the poles and patting Steve on the back. “Whelp, I’m off to go and get some drinks. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Barnes.” He thrust a hand out to Bucky. 

Still finding his behavior extremely odd (there were a great many suggestions that played around in his head, none of which were all too believable), Bucky took his hand nonetheless and gave a quick shake. “Yeah, you too, Mr. Wilson.” 

And the final thing Bucky missed was the wink and eyebrow wiggle that Sam gave Steve just as he was walking off – but only by a fraction. 

He didn’t miss Steve’s brow shoot up, though. 

And when the blonde turned back around to face him again, he saw him purse his lips with a small smack and throw his hands wide, facing the ground. Steve was utterly silenced for a moment. As was Bucky. What did he just see? What had Sam just done that would make Steve’s face contort into that? Well, perhaps not ‘contort’, that was an awfully strong word . . . perhaps ‘shift’ was better suited. What had caused his face to shift into something that screamed for Wilson to shut up? 

A million suggestions ran through his head, but Bucky sifted them out just as he had learned to all these years. 

And it wasn’t even that much a delay before Steve shook his head, and broke the silence before it became too fragile. 

“Yeah, he’s, er . . . He’s just a really, uh . . .” He glanced off to see Sam walking proudly off. “Yeah. He’s weird.” 

At that Bucky gave a quick, breathed laugh and agreed. “Well, I’ll say.” He wanted to ask just what it was that the man had meant by all that – what had Steve told Sam about him? Had he shared the entire incident of the night before? Had he given away his secrets? Had he told him about how he had wanted to die? How he was going to kill himself? Was Sam showing signs of pity? 

No . . . it wasn’t pity, Bucky knew that well enough. 

But . . . if it wasn’t pity . . . then what was it? He couldn’t figure this out anymore than he could figure out that other odd feeling he had felt earlier. Though, he did notice, they felt similar. 

What was with his sudden inability to think straight this morning? Maybe it was the ocean finally getting to him. Maybe he was seasick . . . 

“Anyway,” Bucky tried to remember the original reason he had come out here in the first place, grabbing Steve’s attention and answering his original question before he forgot. “I, er . . . I wanted to come out here, to . . . to find you, actually.” 

Clearly, that had not been what Steve had been expecting to hear. His brows shot up again, but in clear surprise. “Wow, really?” 

Bucky nodded, continuing. “I realized that, in my shock, I hadn’t gotten the chance to properly thank you last night. For . . . saving my life.” His eyes grew distant at that, and he had quieted his voice, but Steve’s remained wide, blue and open. 

“Ah, no need.” He swatted his free hand away at him. “It was really all fine . . . I just did what anyone else would do.” 

Not anyone, thought Bucky. 

“And besides, you invited me to dinner.” Steve thrust his free hand into his pocket. “That’s thanks enough.” 

“No. No it’s not.” Bucky shook his head, getting serious; shifting his weight so that he stood more erect on his feet. “I wanted to *really* thank you. You . . . you really helped a lot of people with what you did, not just me.” 

“You mean your sister?” Steve asked.

Bucky was taken aback; his turn to be surprised, now. “How’d-? How’d you know about my sister?” 

Steve shrugged with a grin. “It wasn’t a hard guess. When I saw her, and the way you two interacted last night, she just seemed to really care about you. And I saw the way you looked at her,” He smiled at the thought, “I knew she had to be some sort of relation, not to mention how you both have really, really similar noses and an almost identical jawline.” 

“Well im not sure to take that as a compliment or an offence, that my sister is manly or I’ve the shape of a woman’s face.” Bucky tilted his head, licking the inside of his mouth in a wry smile; though his voice remained playful. 

“No, no! that’s not what I meant!” Steve tried to save himself, covering his tracks and failing miserably. “I just meant that you two look alike – not like you look like a girl – I mean, or that she looks like – What I meant to say, was--” Steve sighed and Bucky found that he actually smiled again. What was it with being around this man that made it seem so natural an occurrence? 

“Relax,” Bucky saved him from his own pit. “I’m only joking. It’s just that, for you to recognize things like that – it just . . . it sounds to me like you’ve got the – that you’re an . . .” He wanted to finish his sentence with the word that was just dying to bounce off the tip of his tongue, but changed his mind when he was reminded of how silly it all was that he was even interested in these types of things. How he had been made the laughing stock at the dinner party just the previous night. How he’d had to sit there, like some sort of robotic machine, and deal with being the punching bag for everyone’s life . . . and changed his mind. He had come out here to escape all that for a moment, and clearly a moment was all he was going to get anymore. He should have enjoyed it a little bit more . . . He wasn’t prepared for anyone else to poke at him for ‘not being a man’, just simply because of what he had chosen to like. 

Steve must have seen something come over his face, as Bucky was just suddenly shaking his head, breathing in and out slowly as he began to turn away. “Never mind.”

“No, no,” Steve was suddenly saying, lifting a hand just some, as if afraid he’d somehow upset him. “What is it?” Bucky could have been touched by the gesture on any other day except the ones that currently occupied his life. Yet, he found himself answering (as if he owed this man any explanation?) 

“Nothing, it’s just . . . I’ve come to thank you, and I have. So, I’ll be going now.” 

His bubble being popped more and more by the second, he wanted nothing more than again to be off of this ship and just . . . just . . . 

“You’ve come to . . .? Well, you sure gotta funny way of thanking somebody.” Steve smiled at him, but his clear attempt to get him to stay was obvious even to Bucky. 

“How would you prefer I say it then?” Bucky asked on the defensive for the second time as he spun around, half wondering if he was just imagining Steve talking like that, and half wondering if he should just up and leave anyway without saying another word. “I’ve said ‘Thank you’.” 

Well, there went that half . . .

“How about with some emotion?” Steve tried to turn it into a joke, and chuckled. “Normally, when somebody thanks somebody, they share their feelings of gratitude – not exasperation.” 

Bucky sighed then, holding his arms out dramatically with a bow. “Thank you,” he drawled. Which after earning a disbelieving laugh from Steve, he rose back up to face him again. “Better?” He asked, finding again that he was once again, somehow, smiling. Even if it was only half as much as before – his lips still curled upward. 

Steve lifted his hand and waved it in a topple-y motion. “Weeeellll . . . I mean, your nose didn’t exactly brush the floor, but I think it works. Just this once.” 

“Glad to hear you’re gonna hold me to it, then.” 

At that Steve smiled wider, and wider, finally giving him a nod. “Care to join me for a walk?” 

With a contented sigh, Bucky had never been so happy to hear those words in all of his life. 

 

__________________________

 

They must have walked around the entirety of the ship for days, weeks, years . . . it felt like forever to Bucky, who had actually began to wholeheartedly enjoy the company of this strange man. And though he knew they had only been walking and talking for a few hours, at most, it felt like more than that. It felt longer. It felt as if Bucky had actually known him, for all his life, and that they were just old companions, each catching up on the years the other had missed. It was such an odd sensation, but Bucky wanted anything but for it to stop.   
They had talked about any range of things – from Bucky’s life as he grew up in a house as the only child until his sister had come along, and how he’d hated her at first, thinking that she was going to ruin his life until he fell irrevocably in love with her; to how Steve had grown up alone after he’d lost his mother to a spreading sickness, and his dad to the icy waters of the lake. Steve had had no siblings or other family that he’d known of (none of which were on that side of the country, at least), so he’d been alone for most of his life, growing up in the streets of Brooklyn. 

Their life stories proved interesting to both of them, and soon they had gone into detail about their childhood, about their lives, about their families, some of what they liked and disliked . . . Bucky was actually having a conversation with someone. Someone who was like him – human. 

And after finishing a particularly dreadful, yet funny story of how he’d managed to steal some pieces of fruit from a local produce store, Steve shrugged as he walked alongside Bucky, closing his tale. “After that, I haven’t been back since. I had no need. I guess you could just call me a tumbleweed, blowing in the wind.” He gave a chuckle, to which Bucky returned. “Well, Bucky,” He suddenly said, throwing his arm with the sketchbook about. “We’ve walked about a hundred miles around this boat deck, and chewed about how great the weather’s been, and how I grew up, and I’ve managed to hog most of the conversation . . . but I reckon that’s not all why you came out here to see me, is it?” 

“Mr. Rogers, I --“ 

“Steve.” 

“Steve,” Bucky amended. “I did honestly come out here to thank you . . . not just for saving my life, but for the discretion. You didn’t share with anyone last night why I was really out there, and I really want to thank you for that.” A darker expression clouded Bucky’s blue-eyed gaze, and he became distant, looking away as they continued to walk. “Look, I know what you must be thinking. Poor little rich boy,” 

Steve halted in his tracks, confused as Bucky continued. “What does she know about misery?”

“No.” Steve corrected him, latching his freehand to a nearby rope, shaking his head at him. Bucky turned about face. “No, that’s not what I was thinking.” Bucky could hardly believe what he was hearing. “What I was thinking was, what could have happened to this boy to make him think that he had no way out?” there was a pause before the young brunette replied, turning his head away again. 

“Well, I . . .” Bucky sighed, lifting his arm only to drop it back down again. And before he knew it, something washed over him, and he was pouring his heart out, walking over to the edge of the railing next to Steve and looking out over the waters without seeing them any more than he could see a ghost. “It was everything.” He admitted, surprising even himself. 

“It was my whole world, my life, and all the people in it. And the inertia of my life, plunging ahead, and me . . . powerless to stop it.” And for further clarification, he lifted his left hand up to show Bucky the engagement ring that had been forcefully placed upon his finger by Brock. 

“God, look that that thing!” Steve gasped, grabbing his hand and pulling his fingers over. His eyes scanned the miraculous diamond adorning the top center of the silvery ring. “You would have straight to the bottom.” He tried to make it a joke, but Bucky wasn’t laughing. The brunet’s eyes remained cold and distanced, and his whole air had changed, mimicking what Steve had felt from him just the previous day, when they’d first met. 

“Over 500 invitations have gone out,” Bucky continued. “All of Philadelphia Society will be there . . . The rest of the bustle of people who could care less about me than they do about the food that will be served . . .” his breathing quickened, and he could feel an icy hand grip his lungs, squeezing the life right out of him. “And all the while, I feel I’m . . . standing, in the middle of a crowded room . . . screaming at the top of my lungs,” He lifted his eyes to meet Steve’s, “And no one even cares.” He closed his eyes softly, momentarily, getting his composure back under control with a breath. 

There was a silence between them; and as soon as Steve knew he was finished speaking, he suddenly asked, “Do you love him?” 

Bucky’s neck snapped up, incredulous. “Pardon me?” 

“Do you love him?” Steve repeated without skipping a beat. 

Bucky’s mouth moved around, yet no words would come out. He looked around him, knocked flabbergasted by the audacity of this man to ask such a question. He didn’t know what to say, or how to respond, and found himself at a loss for words, trying to form a coherent sentence. “You’re – you’re being very rude.” He tried, looking Steve up and down. “You shouldn’t be asking me this.” 

“Well, it’s a simple question.” Steve shrugged, never letting his eyes fall away. “Do you love the guy or not?” 

Bucky barked out a quiet laugh, unbelieving – yet refusing wholeheartedly to answer the question. This was not something that he was ready or willing to share . . . much as his gut wanted someone outside his immediate circle of people to know. “This is not a suitable conversation.”

“Why can’t you just answer the question?” Steve’s voice was anything but demanding, rather amused at the brunette’s reaction, smiling widely when Bucky suddenly was pushing himself away from the railing and taking several steps away. Steve followed him, even when Bucky lifted a hand to brush some stray hairs out of his face and hold his forehead like his skull may collapse. 

“This is absurd!” He rounded on the blonde, but upon seeing him, his own smile began to return. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you – and we are not having this conversation at all. You are rude,” He repeated again, as he searched his mind for the next round of insults as Steve’s brows shot up in light mockery. “And uncouth,” Bucky added, finding his vocabulary again, “and presumptuous, and forward . . .” And having realized that he began to simply name things about him rather than insult him, and watching the way Steve was regarding him with such a kind expression of laughter whilst lightly nodding his head, Bucky almost felt the need to blush and suddenly was correcting himself, “and I am leaving now,” He reached out to quickly grab Steve’s hand, giving it a dramatic shake up and down. “Steve.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, repeating, “Mr. Rogers” More forcefully, making his manners come back into play. “It has been a pleasure. I sought you out to thank you, and now I have thanked you.” He continued to shake Steve’s hand, without really realizing it. 

“And insulted me.” Steve added, their hands still bobbing up and down, even more so than the waters themselves. 

Bucky’s lips went in the shape of an “o”, and he scanned his brain for more words again before finally settling on the first thing that came to his mind, however childish and unmannered it may have seemed. It was truth. “Well, you deserved it.” 

“Right.” Steve chuckled at him. 

“Right.” Bucky chortled, trying to make his voice sound disbelieving, but only managing to come across as intrigued and . . . and something else. Steve pursed his lips, letting his eyes lock on their still shaking hands, smiling back up at him. 

“I thought you were leaving.” He grinned. 

“I am.” Bucky said, finally releasing his grip with a laugh of his own and turning abruptly on his heel to walk away from him. But he found suddenly, that he was unwilling to go. Unwilling to lose this battle of wits, unwilling to enter back in the Titanic’s walls . . . unwilling to quite bring himself to leave, and with a smile, he merely spun back around before he had even taken a full five steps off, spouting, “You are so annoying!” he tried to turn back around to walk again, but failed the second time, turning back around to say, “Such a punk!” 

Steve gave a hearty laugh at his attempts of insulting that merely came off to him as flattery. 

“Wait.” Bucky said thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side and starting to make his way back to Steve again. His steps sounded on the smooth wooden planks of the deck, and he grew proud and brave, meeting Steve’s gaze head-on. “I don’t have to leave, this is my part of the ship!” He stopped right next to the blonde, throwing a pointed finger outward towards the opposite direction of the ship. “You leave.” 

“Oh, hohoho.” Steve followed the trail of Bucky’s finger, but only took a step back as he reached out beside him to grab another of the many ropes that connected themselves like branches of ivy to various parts of the ship. “Well, well, well – now who’s being rude?” His soft yet fiery gaze met Bucky’s, and the brunette was once again knocked speechless; eyes wide as he let his arm fall back down. 

But, oddly enough, he found that he was anything but angry. Didn’t this sort of thing usually cause disruption in him? Where was it now? Why was it the same thing that usually happened to him, yet he felt so different? 

Bucky gave in much like a child then, unable to speak and resorting to physical action. He chose the first thing his mind would come to, and that was reaching out to snatch the small book way that Steve had kept tucked under his arm this entire time. “What is this stupid thing you’re carrying around, anyway?” Turning it over, he realized what he was holding. “Is this . . .?” He asked, pointing absently to the book. “A sketchbook?” 

Suddenly leaving was the last thing on his mind – as if it hadn’t been already. 

“Yeah.” 

Bucky found that he could just no longer contain his question that had been eating away at his mind for the entirety of the morning. “You’re an artist?” He couldn’t help it. All his life, he’d loved to collect paintings, and had always been so attracted to the different forms of art – but never, had he ever actually met an artist, in the flesh, who had been standing before him holding their own work. Now all he wanted to do more than ever was look inside at those pages, and see if he could find the missing pieces of himself amongst this stranger’s work, if he could locate the parts of his soul that seemed lost to the world, lost to life, to the very void that had simply become him these past few years . . . He wanted nothing more than to suddenly just sit down and go through everything. His attraction to art had nearly never been as strong. 

“Well, I’m not sure I’d call myself that . . . but I do like to draw.” Steve smiled at him. 

Bucky couldn’t stop himself, now. “May I?” He asked, reaching for the book. 

“Of course.” Steve passed it over to him willingly, and Bucky took it in his hands like a small child would a giant ice-cream cone. He gingerly lifted the cover back, his eyes greeted by the first page they saw. It nearly took his breath away. It was beautiful . . . they were beautiful. This was absolutely amazing – this was talent! 

What he saw first were a beautifully shaded pair of hands – the most hardened, calloused pair of hands he’d ever seen on paper. But they were mesmerizingly astonishing, how Steve had managed to capture the very essence of each wrinkle, each fold of skin, each little line dragging itself across the very tips of the fingernails . . . He flipped the page, seeing now a woman, breastfeeding her infant child. The entirety of the etching was in charcoal, but the lines were so prominent, so masterfully carved out . . . Bucky smiled. 

“These are . . . these are rather good.” He said, grabbing the loose page to flip it around to better see it. “These are . . . very good, in fact.” He looked up to Steve, who had taken to smiling embarrassedly himself, before flipping the next page over gingerly, seeing then a small child, aged no older than a year at most, being held by a pair of aged hands that had seen the world in all its faults and glory – the contrast betwixt hem was amazing! How Steve had managed to convey such young innocence, without the child even having a face – yet managed to add such great years, such wisdom, such life to those other hands holding the child. Bucky walked absent-mindedly towards a nearby chair to sit down while he looked through the book.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing – all of these drawings, the more and more he flipped through them, were just merely in charcoal, not a single touch of paint or color anywhere, yet so vivid and so alive, they screamed of passion and purity, such as Bucky knew he’d never seen before. 

“Steve . . . this is exquisite work.” 

“I do appreciate that . . .” Steve answered sitting down in the chair beside him, “but they didn’t think too much of them in old Paree.” 

Bucky was caught at his words. He faced him again. “Paris? You drew these in Paris?” 

The blonde nodded. “Most of them.” 

Bucky lifted a brow, impressed. “You do get around, for a poor--” He caught himself, instantly snapping his trap shut and facing Steve to see how much damage he’d done. “I mean, for a – a person of . . . of limited means.” He stammered, trying to correct himself. Though his status would have allowed him to speak in such a manner, it still wasn’t polite. But Steve had begun to laugh at him, nodding. 

“Go on. A poor guy. You can say it.”

Bucky was relieved he’d caused no offense, and took to looking at the drawings again. Flipping through the pages, he then came across a fully nude woman with her bare breasts exposed. His eyes grew wide and he cocked his head, turning the paper over to get a better look. “Well, well, well.” He said, getting a good look before turning the page again. Another nude woman greeted him, in her entirety this time, as she stood with her head turned to the side, leaning against a balancing pole such as a dancer of some sort would use. 

“And these were drawn from life?” Bucky asked him. When Steve realized that Bucky was unperturbed by it, he smiled and nodded. When someone began to walk past them both towards the flight of stairs that led to another deck below them, Bucky closed the book slightly, casually, until the stranger had gone. 

Steve continued speaking. “Well, that was one of the good things about Paris. Lots of girls willing to take their clothes off.” 

Bucky laughed at that as he grabbed the next page, coming across a fully nude male figure, then. 

“Apparently, men, too.” He added. 

“Well,” Steve seemed to become a little shy and closed off at this, but Bucky didn’t flinch. However, he did refuse to acknowledge at this time the rush of blood that had flowed immediately downward in his body at the sight of the beautifully fleshed out male figure before his eyes. But he did acknowledge Steve’s sudden awkwardness about the prospect of the etching. 

The Blonde gave a worried laugh. “Yeah, some men, too . . .” He spoke more as Bucky turned the page to see more nude male studies. “Its just, that . . . the human body is so beautiful, and so diverse . . . a man is completely different than a woman . . . a woman is so slender, and curvy, and her lines tend to be soft when you draw them . . .” You could very clearly hear the artist threading himself deep within Steve’s words, “but with a man . . .” 

Bucky’s eyes strayed ever downward on the drawings, the lovely, picturesque drawings. Even if he wasn’t into this particular gender as much as he was, the art itself was bewilderingly beautiful. 

“A man is blockier. Thicker, taller, sturdier . . . their lines are hard and rigid, and defined . . . but only on some. It’s just . . .” Steve sighed. “The right body can be just as equally as beautiful as a woman’s. Each is their own work of art.” 

Bucky believed every one of his words, going back to a time in his head when he’d first had those similar thoughts, and the young boy – Clint – that had taught them to him. Bucky flicked through the pages some more, beginning to recognize the same male, the same face as he gazed deeper into the book. “You liked this man,” He said then. “You used him several times.” 

“Well,” Steve was quick to interject, grabbing the book, and flipping several pages ahead to where a torso and parts of legs were drawn with soft, deep lines in the paper. “He had miraculous physique. I’d never seen such a unique build on a man before, and I jumped at the chance to draw him before I knew I’d never get to again . . .” he suddenly trailed off, and tried another railroad of conversation, much to Bucky’s disappointment. 

“And this woman here, she had beautiful hands, you see.” Steve flicked the pages by until it settled on another nude study of a stunning, thin young woman lying in a bed. A cloth was strung haphazardly over her petite figure, covering up any private parts. 

Bucky released an amazed breath. “I think you must have had a love affair with her.” Though the words strangely shot a pang of emotion to his heart, for which he had no plausible explanation. But he played it off smoothly with a raise of his brow and a sly grin. 

“No, no, no, no.” Steve held up a hand, very quickly. “Just with her hands.” He corrected, clearly conveying with such a small sentence that that was not his area of expertise. He nodded. “She was a one-legged prostitute.”

Bucky looked over at him, shocked. But Steve continued to show him more of his drawings, flipping the next page. “See?” 

Bucky turned the book in his hands, nearly blushing at the plainly explicit drawing that Steve had taken to showing him. He let out a shocked sort of sound, unable to think of a more suitable reaction. “O-Oh.” He stuttered out, turning his head, trying to get the picture to look better, but unable to do so. He knew right well what he was seeing, and turning his head in different angles wasn’t going to change that. Steve laughed softly at his reaction.

“Ah, she had a good sense of humor, though. Oh!” And then he was off again. Bucky found that his eyes had strayed to watch Steve’s own as the blonde navigated the papers like an ocean of charcoal, knowing exactly which drawing was placed where, having clearly learned the rhyme and reason of having an artist’s mind. It was fascinating to watch the way his eyes glowed as they danced across the pages . . . Bucky found himself wondering if Steve himself wasn’t a work of art himself. 

“And this lady,” Steve said, turning the page again, suddenly reminded. Bucky’s eye met that of an older woman, who had been in her early forties, no doubt, all dressed up in the finest silks and satins and furs, a right nice bow adorning the hat on her head. Several wineglasses sat about her on the table in the picture, and a few scraps of paper, and pieces of gold and silver adorned her every part of her body. “She used to sit at this bar, every night,” Steve told the story, “wearing every piece of jewelry she owned . . . just . . . waiting, for her long, lost love.” His eyes ran over her sweet, plump figure that carried such a far-off gaze in her eye, remembering the very night he had sketched her out. “We called her Madam Bijoux.” 

When that earned a questioning glance from Bucky, Steve clarified, “See, her clothes are all moth-eaten?”

The young boy smiled, shaking his head as he released a breath. “Wow . . . you really have a gift, Steve.” Bucky said, giving him a long stare. “You do. You see people.” 

“I see you.” Steve said, eyeing the young boy before him. 

Bucky straightened his shoulders, proudly holding his head high, blinking long before peeking down at him from the corner of his eye. “And?” He asked, smiling. 

But Steve didn’t smile back this time. No, his mind was farther away, looking deep into Bucky’s eyes as if he could see to the very depths of his soul. Could he see more than he was letting on? 

“You wouldn’t have jumped.” Steve said simply. 

And Bucky just gazed at him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okee dokee, guys - everything else from here on out was me!  
> Hope ya'll enjoy it! :) I did my best to write in her voice, so . . . let me know what you think :) :)
> 
> PLEASE COMMENT AND TELL ME! I NEED TO KNOW IF I SHOULD KEEP GOING! :) :) Otherwise, I'll think no one likes it, so I need inspiration to keep going! :) :)

Perhaps it had been too much to sit in the confinements of the little room, or perhaps it had been the way the very atmosphere around him bobbed up and down in time to the cold, harsh waves. Perhaps it had been the foreign smells of the travelers around him, or that of the cabin itself, or the way the moonlight was so vivid, so bright, it seemed merely to be a miniature white sun in and of itself, gazing down into the small space; or maybe even because of the plain and simple fact that he wasn’t tired. 

Whatever the reason he may have very well wanted it to be, Steve already knew the real answer that rested well and deep within his heart; even if his friends hadn’t quite put it together yet. His mind still wandered always back to that gorgeous, shattered soul of a boy. 

The story yet untold; the work of art yet undrawn; the blotched and torn canvass of a man. 

James. 

Yes . . . James. That boy had been occupying a great deal more than just a thought or two alone since their previous encounter earlier that same day. Steve had found that he had quite easily been obsessing over this stranger for the most part, hard as me may have tried repeatedly (without much success) to divert his attention to something – anything – else. But alas, his mind was not to easily distracted. 

He nearly found it hard to breathe, with his mind racing, begging, itching, screeching for him to sketch out this man’s story, replaying languid visions of his perfect, cracked smile over and over and over again in his mind. That same perfect smile that had been so brief, so minimal, so pure . . . so breathtakingly and astonishingly beautiful before . . . 

Steve’s mind was as restless as his aching heart – even if the boy hadn’t spoken a word to him, the tension of the unfortunate scene to which Steve had unwittingly been a party to furrowed through his mind like a mole in the deepest reaches of his brain. He had always felt the need to help, to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, and perhaps maybe that was the biggest reason James refused to leave his mind. 

Perhaps it was the way James held his head, or the way his smile had been so murderously ripped from the masked beauty of his strong, yet delicate features, or perhaps it was the way he had painted on such a face that he himself was becoming a work of art that was beginning to fade away, like ink soaking into a piece of torn parchment – losing his sense or purity, and originality, and all-around self, to the world in which no one returned . . .

Or perhaps Steve would just simply never know the reason why his mind raced at the thought of him, or understand why he had felt so strongly after seeing that big man pull such a change over the boy that he hardly was even recognizable as one and the same, or ever be able to pinpoint just why he was aching to see him so bad, even if for only a moment more – a second, even – to make sure that he was alright. 

I’d have better chance of angels flying out of my ass than to ever be near him again, he thought bitterly. 

The snoring of Sam above him didn’t help to ease his nerves any, and with his thoughts yet racing, swelling, swirling with that young man still so blatantly on his mind, Steve sighed to himself; reaching up to rub his non-tired eyes roughly with the palms of his charcoal covered hands. 

The other two men sharing their room were already fast asleep, much like that of his colored friend; and the sounds of the ocean could be well-heard through the porthole on the wall to his right. He tried to concentrate on those sounds instead.

The sounds, the smells, the new adventure of the world around him and the world he was going to . . . anything, anything but that boy. 

That boy, and the way his rigid body screamed of a thousand hidden stories, and a million cuts and scrapes and bruises against such a soft soul shelled within the walls of a scarred carapace, the way that larger man seemed to have such a hold over him, and that smile – oh, God, that smile! – that washed away like paint in a misty puddle. 

Steve groaned softly to himself, sitting upright and throwing his legs off the edge of the springy mattress. His head slumped lightly between his shoulders, and the moonlight glancing white of his hair added a ghost-like quality were he able to see it himself. 

Why, he questioned himself, was there such a deep-rooted connection to this man? And why did Steve find himself so greedy as not to let it go? He had let much of anything else go in his life – his job, his life, his parents . . . he had no one but Sam as it were – but he was just fine with that. He had let it go. But now, faced with something as simple as a stranger . . . Steve found himself to be wanting, needy, though it was anything but in his nature. Sure, he had his times, and his sides of his soul he kept hidden, but they had never amounted to much before, especially not anything like this. 

He sat and debated for a while. He knew sleep would evade him, much as it always did when he left something unfinished . . . but the trick was, to trick his mind into thinking that it had been finished. That he had been able to make sure he was alright, make sure he was still okay . . . That he had been able to hear his story from none other than his lips alone . . . 

And then that smile . . .

He needed air. Some fresh air . . . and a smoke. That would do the trick, to at least ease his nerves some. 

It was decided then, and quickly before he changed his mind. 

Rising to his feet, he reached around for the coat at the end of his bunk, throwing it over his shoulders as he chuckled silently to himself at the prospect, at the thought of someone, a stranger – of the upper class, imagine that – was taking such a toll on his mind. 

Silently trying to gather his things so as not to cause any sort of disturbance amongst the sleeping passengers around him, Steve reached for his bag in the dark, fumbling through it to try and find his cigarettes. It didn’t take long, and by the time he was up and out the door, he was already feeling better. Walking always helped. 

Being near the bottom of the ship meant that there were more than a few stairs to climb to get out to the open decks of the ship, but for once, Steve was ever grateful for that. It only meant more time for his brain to calm itself back down, and more time to breathe. 

Even if with every other breath, he was sketching out the eyes and jawline of that boy in a mental drawing. 

 

He made his way up top, passing everyone with a smile and a nod as he did so, though they were rarely – if ever – returned. Finally emerging onto the decks above, the cold night air smacked him in the face, taking his breath away for an entire moment before his body adjusted to the breeze and a smile weaved its way across his rugged features. He hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath before. 

The night was beautiful. A million – nay, more than that by a thousand – stars littered the sky, like someone had dumped a bucketful of pins by mistake and left them there for their admiration and beauty. Oh, how Steve wished there was a way to sketch that out! He ran his fingers through his hair in thought; how each star held a significance to each of its own, how the twinkling lights of them seemed to have its own form of communication, as if alerting the others to shine suddenly brighter, or for another signaling that it was its time to end. Stars, shooting stars . . . 

How a moment can last merely as long as one, sometimes . . .

In less than an instant, his mind had wandered back to James once again. Steve, instead of berating himself, simply smiled. Along one line in his brain, it was funny that this sort of thing should be happening to him – along the other, was a simpler thing: he simply enjoyed the boy being on his mind. It wasn’t like he was occupying unwanted space, and therefore, Steve placed blame on that fact, that he just simply enjoyed thinking about him as a story, something that was just out of his reach to create, or finish, or ever see the end of. 

Perhaps that was the only reason. 

But his mind slipped out of his grasp before he could latch onto it again, and suddenly it was off – 

On trails of James’ posture, how he had been standing, how his eyes seemed pained and tired, even with a full night’s rest clearly having been set upon them; His arms, the way he even had seemed to flinch when Steve offered him a cigarette, and afterwards a light – the untrusting gleam in that darkened abyss he had caught a mere glimpse of once the walls and defenses cracked; and the softest wrinkles creasing his forehead, the folds of his raven suit, the lightest traces of somebody, somewhere, deep down inside that was screaming to be released, as if a thousand and one words were on the mere tip of his tongue, but were held back by something Steve couldn’t recognize other than the pure sense of being berated, and the defeat of having to keep his true self hidden; and the shock of fear as the other man had called his name, making that smile – that ever sweet and sensitive and tiny and small and insignificant yet so, so utterly important and eye-opening and soft smile – that had allowed Steve a minute momentary access to the inner workings of the person he knew inhabited that shell of a body, disappear; and the way he’d just pit the smoke right into that larger man’s face, the way he’d walked off, broken and bruised and ashamed and miserable and dejected and caught up in so many different emotions that Steve had – 

Steve shook his head, catching ahold of his mind again and slamming on the brakes. 

What was the point of walking out in the middle of the night when the sole purpose he was coming out was the sole thing making it worse? 

He needed a better distraction, he knew, walking to the edge of the deck, and stringing his body haphazardly across the cool metal bars. It was ice set against his plush skin, making him take in a sharp breath from the temperature change, but at the same time it did help somewhat, to calm him. 

He wasn’t faring any better than he had been before, no matter how hard he tried to fool himself. Finally settling on the last shred of self-dignity he had left, he closed his eyes to breathe in deeply, and hold his breath. When he finally released it for fear of fainting, there was actually silence amongst his brain.

He sighed contentedly . . . but it wasn’t for long. 

The bars only soon came to remind him of earlier, how he’d seen that young, elegant brunet lean across them as if he wished they’d give way beneath him, causing him to fall, and fall, and fall, and crash into the roaring trail of water left behind in the Titanic’s wake . . .

“Gah,” he grumbled to himself with yet another smile at his own expense. 

What did he expect? He asked himself as he threw his hands in his baggy pockets of his brown trousers and kicked a foot out as he stepped along the wooden planks decorating the ground beneath his shoes. Did he honestly think that James would so easily evade his mind now that he was becoming more tired as the night progressed? Had he truly tricked his own self into believing that that man would become anything less than an obsession of wishing to know what had gone on behind those closed doors when he’d walked off so indignantly; as if he would become anything less than something Steve wanted – nay, needed – to make sure he was alright – just because he had walked outside? 

Perhaps it was the fact that he was actually beginning to lose his mind. 

He debated, seriously, on whether or not to just take a larger leap of adventure – be wild and crazy for once again in his life, and search about the upper decks, find him to see if he was indeed alright. It would be fun, it would be crazy, and just what he needed to ease the tension building behind the back of his eyes. Yes, that would help . . . wouldn’t it? He would be able to ease his brain then, into thinking of something else.

But alas, he was a smart lad, and had a pair of brains somewhere within that thickened skull of his. Logic was only all too familiar as it settled deep within the ridges and corners of his soul, knocking his ideal fantasy flat to the ground. He didn’t know that boy any more than he knew Adam. He didn’t know his room number, he didn’t know where he was on the ship, and most of all, he didn’t know if he would even remember Steve. The thought struck an odd chord somewhere down in his chest, though he wasn’t all that sure why.

Besides, he wouldn’t even get past ay of the upper-class passengers to even catch a glimpse of the world that was still so far out of his reach. He’d be stopped before he even made it a single deck up. 

So close, yet so far . . .

Slumping down on a nearby bench, he leaned back and stretched his legs out as he took the entirety of the seat – folding one arm behind his head as he gazed up again at the dumped pins littering the sky, whilst the other rustled about in his pocked in search of the cigarette he had originally come out here to smoke. 

He found his matches, lifting his head in a position so that he wouldn’t burn himself as he set afire the very tip before flicking the flame away; tossing the match aside in the wind and taking a rather large puff. 

Why did he expect anything other than to just change his scenery when his thoughts would inevitably stay the same? 

All was silent, save for the ocean surrounding him on all sides, and the shifting breeze adding a rush of cold and almost making him shiver. 

Almost. 

And when he felt his mind start to wander back down the trails that were becoming only ever-familiar, he reached down to take another large puff of the cigarette; breathing in the tobacco smoke deeply, wistfully, longingly - savoring the taste and the feel of the moment. It was seeming to help, actually. It was starting to work. 

And for the first time that night, Steve’s brain was finally –

A hasty pair of feet rushed past him; the sound of shoes racing across the deck interrupting his now quiet thoughts. 

His first reaction should have been gratitude, for yet merely another thing to distract him from his thoughts – and it very well might have been – had the feet not belonged to a certain someone in particular. 

He sat bolt upright, and his mouth fell agape without his knowledge. 

Was he --?

He was dreaming. He was very, very clearly dreaming when the very man that was rushing so far past him, seeming to run from the very clutches of the devil himself, was none other than James. 

 

Steve blinked, wondering if his obsessional thoughts had actually taken themselves so far as to actually be cast into reality. He no doubt had wished to see him again, and it only seemed odd that there he should be, running right past him . . .

Had he finally lost his marbles? 

He considered it. 

He watched the unmistakable figure of the young man race past him, hearing his ragged breaths and watching his shaking shoulders as he ran . . . 

The man had stopped at the bars. 

Steve’s initial reaction was to get up and walk over, to see if he was okay. He almost wanted to walk over to speak to him again, but didn’t want to be a bother, or intrude on something that really wasn’t his business. Now wasn’t the time. And he debated on just leaving him alone. He was alive, that was all his brain had wanted anyway, wasn’t it? To see if he was still alright? 

But something just seemed off. Something wasn’t right . . .

He watched as the man walked back and forth, turning around in circles, at the edge of the boat itself. 

It didn’t take an idiot to realize that he was very, very clearly in distress – which only made Steve’s thoughts before about the man seem puny and insignificant in comparison. Something was very clearly wrong with him. Something . . . something that Steve couldn’t place in his mind. Just what was wrong? And why did Steve suddenly feel the urge, now more than ever before about anything else in his life, that he should go over there to him? Go over and . . . and . . . 

No, he told himself. Just leave him alone. Let him be. If he really needed somebody – or wanted somebody for that matter – he would have brought somebody . . . 

Unless . . . 

No. He wasn’t doing it. He wasn’t just going to take this as the only opportunity, just because he had chanced to take a walk tonight and accidentally ran into him, when he was so clearly – 

But the more he looked at the hastily way James was twirling himself ‘round and around, the vibrant worry lines on the sharp, ragged jawline that was wet with tears, the poor man, who at that moment, lacked any kind of dignity . . . Steve could see that he was clearly at his wits end with something . . .

Was he . . .?

And the more he watched, Steve’s heart froze. No, he told himself. There’s no way . . .

And the more he saw the sudden steely, stoic posture that had suddenly befallen James, and saw with a sudden jolt of fear that he had lifted his foot to the railings and began to climb over, Steve realized that the very thing he just might be at wits end with, was his life. 

And Steve needed to feel no more than that before he was on his feet in an instant. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bucky was miserable.

Breathing heavily, panting. Thinking, oh god, oh god, oh god, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t . . . about everything at once. He was already on the other side of the railing to the Titanic, standing on the very edge with his body exposed to the open air and the vast, endless ocean before him; his thoughts nothing more than an inner turmoil of an incomprehensible mess . . . 

Noises and sirens and warning bells and screaming voices went off in his head, set all on the loudest volume with the dial broken . . . 

He was thinking and rethinking and thinking again, and so caught up in his mother, and brock, and his situation, and his life and his sister, and everything, everything was just falling apart . . .

He was completely and utterly alone; no one cared, no one saw, no one existed to him outside of his brain, which only made his thoughts all the worse . . . 

He nearly began to second-guess his original plan already, what instantaneous death staring him dead in the face . . . to think that you can be here one second, and then gone the next . . . He wanted to fix it, there had to be another way, he didn’t want to five up fighting and trying, but there was no other way, there wasn’t anything he could do . . . And when he thought of Brock, and his life, and his inevitable execution coming for him – reaching out at his very core with its icy, clawed fingers, chilling his soul to the point where he himself felt nothing more than the cold – his resolution was steeled again. 

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t . . . the voice sang over and over in his head. 

Either way, his life was coming to an end, here and now . . . He just couldn’t take any of it anymore . . .

But with what he was doing, and what was he doing, and everything all at once, clashing in his brain for center stage as he gripped the bars behind him with a ferocity matched by none other; with his mind a mess, and a race, and a pile of emotions, focusing only on all the negatives, and fear, and wishing that anything and everything in his life would change, just change; and what he had done to ever deserve this, and the pain and the smallness, and Brock, and what his life was coming to, over and over and over and over and over and over again and again and again and again, and again . . . 

That it nearly caused him to slip when a voice sounded, soft yet firm – and tinged with fear – somewhere off behind him. 

He jerked his head around to look over his shoulder at the sound, into the baby blue eyes of a man – the same man he had been talking to earlier. The same man that had offered him a cigarette. The same man who had shown him any lick of kindness since his father. The same man who was now fearfully holding a hand out as if to hold Bucky in place where he was with no more than the power of his mind, half-hesitantly taking a slow step towards him.

He was the poster boy for apprehension.

“Don’t do it.” The blonde stated, half as a command, and half as a plea, and with just a little mix of something else that Bucky couldn’t place in his mind. Especially at this moment. 

The shock of someone telling him not to jump, the fact that someone cared enough, and that he was actually visible, that he was actually doing something this monumentally stupid, yet that made such monumental sense in every sensible way – it caught him off guard, and he realized with a sudden bout of shock that he was actually talking to someone. For the first time in a long time, he was actually feeling . . . acknowledged. 

But the first words out of his mouth were anything but what he was trying to convince his own self of still, much less that of anyone else around him. 

“Stay back!” He commanded, his voice weak at best. His breathing was off and ragged still, and he knew he must look the part of crazy – what with his hair blowing messily about his head in the wind, and his eyes, red and swollen from the tears that had, and still were, falling down his cheeks. The salty air around his body was clinging to his clothes, and chilling him to the bone, only making his skin seem pale and blue in the cold moonlight – making it much worse, he knew. 

He tried furrowing his brows in all the anger that was pent up inside of him to add to it, failing miserably for anything other than to look like a crazed lunatic who strode off deck in a drunken stupor.

Yet the look in the blonde’s eyes before him held no such trace of contempt, or judgement, or disapproval that he felt towards himself . . . and it would have almost been touching to anyone other than what Bucky had gone through to realize that the man before him, with his arm still stretched out to hold him in place (which almost seemed to be working) – his eyes carried nothing more than concern. Deep, true, and utter concern, such as Bucky hadn’t seen in years. It almost seemed as if Bucky were a small, precious thing that could have been so easily broken, and this young man was reaching out to save him . . .

Save him? Save him? What a prospect! As if this puny man could do anything more than Bucky could! He had no clue, no idea . . . there was no saving him now. There was no way out. He was finished. Done for . . . 

Again, he shut down any and all thoughts of his mind before any more hurt and disappointment cold come flooding in, and he was reminded again of just why he was on the wrong side of the rails, why he was running away, why he was choosing to so suddenly and so abruptly end his life . . .

Too late. 

But when the blonde took a tentative step closer, Bucky was snapped out of his depressing reverie and gripped the bars tighter, setting his jaw in a rigid line as he snapped, “Don’t come any closer!” 

Damn you, voice, he thought to himself amongst the flurry of his thoughts. His voice nearly cracked, and his body still had nerve left to betray him yet again by trying to shake in fear and discomfort had he not been holding the bars with such ferocity that he thought he might actually dent them. 

But the blonde seemed to outright disregard everything he’d just said – and thought, for that matter – by walking a little bit faster, and a little bit closer to Bucky’s pallid, shaking figure; waving his hand softly towards himself as he glanced at the floor between them getting smaller and smaller, as if afraid that it may give way at any moment and cause them both to plummet into the blackened waves beneath them. 

“Come on. Just . . . just give me your hand . . . I’ll pull you back over.” 

Bucky was suddenly and strangely tempted to obey him. Yet the fight in his mind raged war upon his conscious mind, and he grew enraged at his body for betraying him for yet a third time tonight by tugging at his aching heart to listen and take the hand, and be pulled to safety . . . what safety? Safety where? Back in his room? Back with Brock?

Bucky became sick at the thought and all his fears and anxiety were again rushing back in upon him . . . I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, i can’t, i can’t . . . chanted by an invisible voice over and over in his mind. 

Oh, God, the fear, and the dread, the thought of coming back to that side of the boat, to Brock’s awaiting arms, to his lips pressing against his, and his tongue raking the underside of his jaw, trying to slide its way lower . . .

He shook his head feverishly, in quick spurts of movement as if his neck were frozen stiff at the mere prospect. This man new nothing about him, and more than likely, just like everyone else, didn’t care to. This man just didn’t want to cause a scene, or make it look like he was somehow responsible for what Bucky was about to do . . . or . . .or . . . something. Something like that, Bucky knew. He knew that the blonde didn’t really care about him. No one did.

“No!” he called out, a little fiercer, finally feeling stronger. His voice didn’t waver, however much it still sounded a little pained. “Stay where you are!” He tried to add, but tear managed to fall from his eye that he hadn’t even felt had been collecting there. Damn it. 

But this time, the blonde seemed to sense something in his voice, and actually listened, stopping his progression almost entirely. 

Almost. 

He stayed for about a full minute, their gazes locked – but eventually tried to take another step anyway. 

“I mean it!” Bucky tried again, but even he could hear the edge in his voice starting to wane . . . he turned to face the water again. “I’ll let go.” If he couldn’t convince the man through words what he was trying to do, he sure as hell could try with his actions. 

Even if he was only trying to convince himself that he was going to jump, just as much as the blonde.

The back and forth he was feeling was driving him mad, and he considered just letting go of the railing and falling into the water that instant . . . just letting it be over with . . . and all his problems would just disappear. . .

Why did this man have to show up? Why couldn’t he have just let James alone to die in peace? Why was he making him feel the sudden change of heart, that maybe – just maybe – he didn’t want to die? 

No! Yes, he did want to die! He had to – there was no other choice! He was going to die anyway, the moment his feet touched land in Philadelphia! He desperately wanted to end it all at that moment, and just let go, as his eyes scanned the water beneath him, rolling and mounting itself in a toil of waves, rippling away into the black night behind the Titanic as she sailed ever on, towards his doom . . . 

Yet he found that he had turned around to look at the blonde again. He found that something refrained him. Something kept him from doing what his mind longed for; what whether it be the curiosity as to why this man was really paying any mind to him and his own personal affairs, or the gleam in his eye that he really cared what Bucky was doing and wasn’t judging him for why he was doing it, or maybe it was because for the first time in his life, someone was actually seeing him, and asking him not to make a decision because they were thinking about him. 

Whatever it was, and whatever it may have been, was evidently enough to keep his fingers glued to the bars if not another tear as it slipped his lashes and flew off in the wind to add another dash of salt to an already plentiful sea. 

The blonde glanced down and up again, to the floor and to Bucky’s face, assessing the situation. Then he was burrowing his brows in thought before a light suddenly went off behind his eyes, and he was holding a hand up as if to say, “hold on”, before lifting the other and taking a last long puff of his cigarette before showing it off, listing his eyebrows as he gestured to the edge of the deck – his eyes never leaving Bucky’s – silently asking permission to throw it overboard so as not to burn the entire ship down. 

But when Bucky didn’t budge or otherwise make any indication that he was allowed to move, the blonde must have taken it for a ‘yes’, as he then slowly took a step closer, and closer, one at a time, to the edge of the boat, to toss the still-burning cigar into the waters below.

His gaze had left Bucky then – though the brunet knew enough that he was still being watched from the corner of his eye – and was now roaming freely over the inky waters, as if trying to pinpoint just where his cigar had fallen to. The man had taken to shoving his hands in his pockets, and taking casual, long-legged steps forward, edging ever closer to Bucky and ever closer to that edge of railing, yet remaining at a distance so as not to startle the poor man into jumping.

And now slightly curious, Bucky sniffed and swallowed, watching him. 

The blonde settled into a determined stance somewhere a few feet to his left, and tentatively tried several times to look over before meeting his gaze, as if he regretted the words he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

“No, you won’t.” 

Bucky knew nothing of the poker face this man possessed, but even so, he could tell that there was a touch of sincerity in his words, and it surprised him. His first reaction would have been to prove him wrong, defy him and just jump off the edge now. End it all.

‘No, I won’t’? he mocked, well, just watch me! 

Yet that something that still kept his fingers locked around the railing, that kept him gripping it tightly as if it were t hast thing he had in his life – which, he realized with a deep pang of sadness, that that was truer than not – was still there, and still kept him from doing it. Even if the water below wanted him more than anyone else in his life right then . . .

Maybe except for Brock.

Oh, God . . . 

But the blonde’s words still managed to enrage him, spark a fire deep within him that was still kindled from earlier, having been disgraced and embarrassed repeatedly without cause and failure earlier that evening. And Bucky shot a glare at the him, throwing any daggers he had left within his grasp into his gaze, lightly squinting his eyes. 

“What do you mean, ‘I won’t’?” he demanded, a touch of that fire seeping into his voice. It sounded much better than it had before, yet it did nothing to aid his feeling better. 

“How dare you presume to tell me what I will and will not do! As if you know me! You don’t know me!” He spat out, his anger rising with each word until it was a near shout by the time he was finished. His carefully styled hair was a mess, blowing about his head and his breathing was ragged and uneven – broken – but his eyes were alight with the fury he had been keeping contained for years, and the pain he had suffered and endured now tinged every word from his mouth, and he spit them out like the poison they were upon his tongue. 

It would have almost felt good, had his heart not been taught to take pity upon the ones who you lashed your anger upon, when they were anything but the cause of it. 

Damn it, again! Is it so hard for him just to go away?!

But the blonde seemed to accept it. He wasn’t turning away, or rushing out, or snapping back with some sarcastic remark to which Bucky couldn’t protect himself from. The sincerity and the care were still there, plastered plainly to his rugged features, and he seemed to actually hear Bucky as well; taking his words in, and actually listening to them, mulling them over like they were a fine wine. Bucky could see very well that he was debating his next words wisely. 

“Well, you . . . you would have done it already.” He finally spoke, almost as a question, almost as if he weren’t sure that that’s what he wanted to say but knew that it was too late now to turn back. 

Bucky froze, gawping upon him as if he were a madman, daring to speak to him in such a way! He was nothing more than mere commoner, a working-class nobody who had no right to speak to him at all in this way! And yet . . . as much as Bucky tried to make his words become fuel to his fire of suicide . . . they merely seemed to become sand thrown onto his flames. He realized with a shock, and with a shattered heart that maybe he was right. Maybe he didn’t want to jump. Maybe he didn’t want to end his life. Maybe he didn’t want to die. 

But he was too stubborn to give in, and now felt that he just needed to keep playing it out for the sake of being right. All he had to do was think of his mother, of Brock, and of going back to that again . . . but even this time around, as much as he hated them both, hated them all, hated everyone right now . . . the fire wasn’t igniting as it had been a few minutes before. In comparison to the blackened arms of death . . . he was beginning to rethink his idea. 

But again, he wouldn’t let it show, and his hatred for Brock ran deep, and he clung to it with fierce desperation.

He gulped. 

Now I’m actually using him . . .? The thought burned bright in his mind, making his stomach churn. 

“You’re distracting me! Go away!” Bucky begged, unable to face the man any longer as more tears began to fall down his face. He turned his head back out towards the water.

But the blonde was persistent. “I can’t. I’m involved now. You . . . if you let go, I’m just gonna have to jump in after ya.” He said, starting to take off his coat before had even finished. 

If Bucky hadn’t been on the verge of death’s arms, he would have sneered – hell, maybe even laughed – at the hilarity of the prospect. Or maybe he would have just right-crossed the man, directly on the cheek, for actually poking fun at him so wantonly. 

But when he began taking off his shoes, Bucky realized that he was actually serious. He was actually . . .? No. There was no way. This was all an act. A coy, meant to deter him from whatever gain was in it on the blonde’s end that Bucky was just too emotional to see right now. But the other side of his brain was stunned – so, so stunned. Bucky had thought he was just blowing smoke out his butt like everyone else in his life . . . But the man wasn’t. 

And when that settled in his mind, Bucky grew extremely uncomfortable. 

This man was actually planning on jumping in after him? 

“Don’t be absurd.” He drawled, shaking his head. Perhaps he could try and berate him for his actions, try and get him to just go away and leave him alone (much as he suddenly found that he was starting to want anything but).

But when that did nothing to divert the blonde’s attempts at undressing the unnecessary layers, preparing for the jump after him, Bucky realized that he had better switch tactics. 

“You’ll be killed.” He tried, knowing damn well that that was exactly what he himself was aiming on, but having no other bargaining chip to try and use as both point that he wanted to die, and to allow him to jump without risk of being followed. Without risk of having someone die on his conscience. 

Bucky realized then, was he actually waiting for permission from this man to jump? 

“I’m a good swimmer,” The blonde spoke forward, not missing a beat in conversation. 

Damn. There goes that attempt . . . 

Bucky sniffed, gazing left and right, racking his brain for another excuse so as not to . . . 

“The fall alone would kill you.” Bucky tried again feebly as the young man undid his shoelaces. He was relentless . . . it both angered Bucky, and at the same time . . . added a kind of serenity to his otherwise parched soul, just a tinge of something that he hadn’t felt for what seemed his whole life. But he knew that it was too dangerous to think like that, to fall for any more tricks – god, you think I’d have learned enough this morning alone! – and shut those thoughts out of his brain for good, concentrating on the pure, seething hatred, and raw hurt that he had acquired that day alone. The original urge to just end it all came back somewhat with that . . . but even now it was beginning to dim. He cursed mentally at the man for doing that to him. Couldn’t he just let him die in peace? Was there nothing he could do anymore at all of his own volition?! 

“It would hurt, I’m not saying it wouldn’t,” The blonde continued, paying no mind to Bucky’s attempts at diverting him or putting him off. He was thoroughly engrossed in undoing his shoelaces as he spoke, only glancing up every few words to make sure he was being heard. 

How absurd that is, Bucky thought bitterly, he’s making sure im listening to him, when he’s clearly not even taking into consideration anything that im thinking! Doesn’t he understand, that it’s all im ever allowed to do anymore, is listen to people . . . they never have to listen to me, and you’re just another one of them. And when I get to America, when I get to Philadelphia . . . it’s all I’ll ever be for the remainder of my days, a little pretty piece of meat in a suit, a piece of transparent glass, that no one sees; that sits and smiles while the world around him goes on unknowing, uncaring . . .

He found the urge to want to die again. 

“To tell you the truth, I’m a lot more concerned about that water being so cold.” The man finished undoing the string on his first shoe as he tugs it off and tosses it aside, beginning his work on the next one. 

Bucky is frozen, contemplating. He hadn’t thought of that. What? Cold? Wouldn’t you just be dead the moment you hit? You were high enough up here, weren’t you?

It was an entirely new prospect that hadn’t even crossed his mind.

It both sparked his curiosity and caused his mind to halt.

And unknowingly to him, the blonde had seen this. Seen the turmoil in his mind now, that Bucky had up until now managed to keep quite well under the wraps. He was hoping that he just may have hit a sensitive spot, a weak link in order to get the burnet not to jump off the edge. 

Bucky then had a touch of fear cross his mind, that if he wouldn’t die at first, then . . . he would drown? He didn’t think he could do that . . . but yes, yes, he could! He could! If it meant never having to deal with everything going wrong right now ever again! . . . But the cold? The way the man had said those words, made it sound as if you were plunging directly into the freezing waters of the arctic itself. And against his own will, for what might as well have been the millionth time that night, and unwilling to look the part of a fool (though he thought he’d have been used to it by now), he found himself asking, “How cold?” 

The blonde’s hopes were lifted that this was, indeed, the lucky gold nugget he had stumbled upon to shift the brunet’s mind away from committing suicide and decided to run with it. It wasn’t like he was lying after all, and Bucky could see that very clearly when he lightly shook his head and stood upright to shift his position so he was standing as casually as if carrying on an every-day conversation when he answered, “Freezing.” 

Bucky gulped at that. 

“Maybe a couple degrees more.” The man tilted his head to the side a little as if weighing it in his mind before bending back down to jerk off his last shoe and straighten up again. 

Bucky’s inner mind was still in a state of chaos, and all he was comprehensibly able to do was look around, before his gaze continuously landed back on the face of the man before him, as if awaiting further instruction. His curiosity was piqued, and he couldn’t bring himself to think of much more than whatever his next words could be. 

“You, er, . . . ever been to Brooklyn?”

The question was so odd, and so out of the ordinary, Bucky thought him to be joking at first – to which he underwent a sting of pain at being the butt end of yet another joke, and angered at himself for his brain sneaking up on him like that and secretly letting him believe that someone was actually talking to him for any reason other than making their own selves look better – 

“What?” Bucky uttered, completely and utterly confused, interrupting his own thoughts. 

“Well, they have some of the coldest winters around,” The man continued, elaborating, hoping to clear it up. His face was almost soft, still crinkled with the fear and worry of immediate threat, and Bucky still could find no trace of anything he was used to dealing with. He seemed to genuinely want to tell Bucky, explain to him, something that he knew. 

What was wrong with this man? 

“I, er, I grew up there, near the Shield – it’s a lake nearby my home - and I remember, when I was a kid,” he glanced back out to the waters around them, reliving a memory deep within his mind with a slight smirk on his face. “I woke up one morning . . . on one of those days where the sun is shining brightly through your window, where you can actually see the beams hit the floor, and you can smell the cold just outside . . .” He appeared lost ina trance, transported to another world all his own. It only made Bucky all the more interested in what he was saying. Because not only was he seeing, and hearing Bucky . . . he was speaking to him. 

And not just to him . . . but to him.

The cold wind whipped about his face. 

“I was out of bed before I even knew it. Me and my old man, we er, we were gonna go ice fishing out on that lake . . . You know,” He paused, looking up at Bucky, “ice fishing? Is where you--”

“Oh, I know what ice fishing is!” Bucky snarled with a shake of his head in disbelief. What did the man think he was? An invalid? Or was he taking the time to explain something to him to make sure he understood?

For what reasons . . .? 

He panted softly to himself, his brain screaming out and pulling itself like crazy in a million different directions so hard it physically hurt. He was so desperate, so longing for any type of interaction with a physical human outside of his brain, but knew the risks and the consequences of having everything ripped so brutally out from underneath you so many times . . . 

“Sorry.” The man apologized, a little on the defensive, with a shirk of his head. He held his hands up as if to ward off any sudden attacks Bucky may have made from his next words (as if he were in any position to do so anyway), as he continued, “You just . . . seem like, y’know, kinda more like an ‘indoor’ type of guy to me.” 

Before Bucky had time to retaliate, or even really let the words fully sink in, the man had lifted his eyebrows and licked the inside of his mouth in a wry line before he continued telling his story, “Anyway, we um, we got out there early enough. When the light was still shining through the branches on the trees surrounding us. I was just walking along, carrying my little pole . . .” 

Bucky watched as a darkened expression stole over the man’s face as he recalled. 

“And I . . . er, I had fallen through some thin ice.” His eyes glossed over at the memory . . . his gaze going far back through his mind to the very day he was speaking of. 

“It was . . . the worst thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life . . .” 

Bulky watched as he could almost see the pictures paying themselves out at the center of the man’s eyes, the shouts and the yells, the story playing itself out. It almost gave Bucky the impression that he himself had been a witness to it, and suddenly the world around him was gone as he lost himself to the man’s words. 

“My old man,” The blonde half-smiled bitterly to himself, hands in his pockets as his eyes grew distant, “he, uh . . . he was coming after me in an instant. He didn’t hesitate . . . he threw himself in the water after me . . .” 

Bucky listened. 

“I’m telling ya . . .” The man continued, Bucky nearly fully enthralled in such a tale that he was almost able to concentrate something else instead of his own life’s problems for a change; so he missed the fact that the blonde had made his way right over to stand by his side. Leaning over the railing, hands clasped, he gave a minute nod. “Water that cold?” he gazed up at Bucky, “Like right down there?” he shook his head, eyes going back down to the water once more. “It hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body.” His voice was sullen, husky. Deep. 

Bucky stopped at that, thinking his words over; his eyes, too, drawn to the inky blackness of the apparently ice-cold waters below them both. 

And as if that wasn’t enough, the man continued. “You can’t breathe. You can’t think,” The man shook his head. “at least not about anything but the pain.” 

Bucky returned to looking at this man, his mind still running about in a hundred different directions . . . but coming back to rest always on the fact that he was honestly curious as to how this man had somehow taken away the only thing he had wished for that night, by simply standing there and talking to him. 

“I don’t even hardly remember the way the light shattered through the frozen waters around me, or the hand that shoved me back up through that little hole . . .” The blonde’s smile suddenly faded away, and his voice was barely above a whisper. 

“But I remember that that was the last time I ever saw my dad.” 

There was a small silence between them both, broken only by the ragged breaths Bucky was taking, calmer even now since the blonde had been speaking so steadily to him. 

Nothing was said. 

“Which,” When the man suddenly spoke up again, it makes Bucky jump, “is why I’m not looking forward to jumping in there after ya.” He finished off, pushing his body away from the bars and throwing his hands back in his pockets again as he sauntered around with carefully positioned steps. “Like I said, I don’t have a choice.” And then he stood there, clearly waiting for Bucky’s response. 

The brunet knew well and true that this man wasn’t bluffing. If he let go now, he would no doubt surely follow, and then only succeed in getting both of them killed. He knew he should, but at the same time only hated himself for feeling, that small, tiniest sense of relief at his words. However angry and hurt and abandoned he may feel. 

Someone – a real, live person – actually cared enough to no let him kill himself. Someone wanted him to be alive, even if only in that moment. 

But when Bucky didn’t make any sort of indication of his thoughts, the blonde spoke up again. 

“I guess I’m kinda hoping you’ll come back over the rail and let me off the hook here.”

And he looked back down at the water. Even brock seemed more forgiving than that dark abyss before him . . . But he was angry at brock. Angry at the man. Angry at his mother, his world, his family, himself, for God’s sake! Angry that the man wouldn’t just let him alone to fall off the edge, even if those oddly strange parts of him were still clinging to the rails as if begging someone to pull him to safety. 

But what safety was he thinking of?!

“You’re Crazy!” He yelled out into the wind, losing any word he may have had in a tidal of being wrong, wishing he could be right, embarrassment, anger, and just pure, unadulterated emotion that he was too tired to fight off anymore. He was tired of everything . . . tired of life . . . yet his fingers refused to let go. 

Why can’t I just fall? 

Tilting his head upward towards the sky, Bucky missed the blond move ever closer until he could almost feel the breath on his neck as he whispered, “That’s what everybody says about me . . . But with all due respect, sir – I’m not the one hanging off the back of the ship here.” 

At those words, it was as if the last of Bucky’s resolve finally blew away into the wind, evaporating like moisture in the air. Gone. No more. Just like that. He realized with even more anger than before that the man was right. That Bucky himself was just as crazy as him, and with everything going wrong . . . this man wasn’t just going to let him die, let him end his life so simply. 

He didn’t want to die. Not yet. As bad as everything had gotten, he slowly realized that he did not, indeed, want to die. He released an angry, yet somewhat relieved breath, and closed his eyes briefly; dropping another tear into the ocean below. 

It was as if the man could sense this sudden change, and slowly reached out his hand. “Come on, give me your hand. You don’t want to do this.” 

He was right. 

He didn’t. 

He desperately didn’t. 

Bucky saw the shape of fingers come into view along the sides of his peripheral vision, glancing down at them quickly as if they were snakes in the grass. But he didn’t move to swat at them, didn’t move to get away, didn’t try and escape. 

And for the first time tonight, his body didn’t betray him, and allowed him the conscious decision to turn slightly and reach out, gripping the blonde’s hand tightly with his own. 

Their hands were then locked like a vice, and Bucky could feel his own hand shake in ever the slightest manner. 

The man smiled warmly at his victory – and Bucky grew wary. But his wariness soon vanished much like his wish to die tonight, when he saw that the smile aimed at him was anything but victorious. It was grateful. Somehow, in some way, Bucky got the sense that this man was actually thanking him, for taking his hand, thanking him for changing his mind. Cchanging his heart. Bucky slowly swung his leg over the other, shifting around on the very edge of the boat so that he could fully face the blond who had single-handedly just saved his life. 

The man’s grip tightened as Bucky managed a full spin, finally meeting his gaze full-on. Though Bucky, still being on the outer edge of the ship, was a head taller now, they were both frozen for what felt an eternity – their eyes locked. 

Bucky nearly let out a sigh. 

The wrinkles of worry and fear and sickened anticipation were leaving the blonde’s expression – being replaced with relaxation and comfort, and all-around joy. Bucky found himself mesmerized by watching his face just melt away, from something so contorted into something so free. He watched the wind tousle his hair and his half-bangs about his head; the grip on his hand never faltering. The gaze, the air, the feel, the energy, the things Bucky had been so desperate to feel . . . This man cared . . . and that both frightened him and felt like a warm gauze on his tattered soul. 

The man let out a quick breath of ‘phew’, and slowly lifted the corners of his mouth to a content grin. “I’m Steve Rogers.” He introduced himself properly, however much their hands were already intertwined. 

“James Buchanan Barnes.” The brunet answered, but when the blonde furrowed his brows ever so slightly, Bucky realized that right then at that moment, he could take no more hits, no more gunshots, and quickly corrected as he closed his eyes, “But don’t – please – just . . . call me Bucky. Please just call me Bucky.” He couldn’t bear it if someone outside his immediate group of people weren’t to know his name before it disappeared forever. If only one other person ever knew him by it, it would be a way it could stay alive even long after he had gone to become James Rumlow . . . 

And he chanced opening his eyes again, expecting to meet anything else than what he saw. The blonde – Steve – was smiling warmly up at him; and Bucky could already feel the worry lines of his own forehead soften, and his breath become more normal, the tears in his eyes begin to dry, when the man spoke up again, nodding fervently and smiling wider.

“Bucky Barnes.” He tried out. “S’got a nice ring to it. I’d probably never be able to remember the other one, anyway.” 

Bucky realized that he had furrowed his brows not because of his name – but because of the length of it. 

And at that, Bucky did something that entirely shocked him and Steve both. 

He laughed. 

It was brief and short, a mere chortle, but it was there.

And it was there, and it was true . . .

And it was perfect. 

And for the first time in the past year, Bucky actually felt a sense of acceptance.

How odd that was! From someone so beneath him in status, someone so every-day, and so ordinary . . . someone so simple was so able to make him feel something so unattainable. 

However brief before his brain took it back away from him, however short it may have been – it had happened, and he had still felt it before it was fleeting away, like the wings on a hummingbird. He thought he may have even felt a shard of his soul return. 

His smile seemed to only makes Steve’s larger, as the blonde gestured with a toss of his head, “Come on. Let’s get you back over here.” And began to help Bucky over the bars. 

Bucky, keeping the grip on Steve’s hand, began to lift his leg over the first bar in the way, slowly, so as not to – 

But in this time, the water below had splashed upward somewhat beneath his feet, and the bars had become slippery. And when he placed his foot on them, he quickly lost his footing and all balance along with it, as he plummeted straight down off the side of the boat with a sickening scream. 

 

******* 

 

Steve yelled loudly as the strength of his grip was tested, when Bucky slipped downward; grunting and groaning, keeping their fingers locked. 

Bucky cried out, swinging freely as Steve thrust his other hand down so that both their arms were intertwined at the wrists. 

“Help me! Please, help!” Bucky screamed. 

Steve was thrown into overprotective mode faster than the boy had fallen, tightening his jaw as he shifted his weight to better hang onto Bucky as he grunted out, “It’s alright! I got you, I got you! I ain’t lettin’ go! Come on!” He tugged upward, but nearly dropped Bucky again, miscalculating his weight. When Bucky slipped downward more, the poor boy called out again, but Steve was right there to help him; calling out himself, “Come on! Come on!” More to himself than to Bucky. 

“Listen to me!” Steve grunted again, putting all the strength into his legs as he tugged at the dangling body before him; Bucky swinging violently as the large blonde tried to pull him back upward, over the rails to safety. “Listen to me! You gotta help me out, here! You gotta pull yourself up! Come on!” 

Bucky’s eyes were trained on him, fixed in fear like he’d never felt before in his life. He couldn’t manage a single word, but must have otherwise conveyed his understanding to Steve, as the blonde gave a quick nod and began to pull harder at his arms. 

Once so far up, Bucky was able to grab onto the bottom rung of the railing where, only moments ago, he had wanted just what had been given him. Oh, the irony! 

But, able to now support himself, Bucky was able to support some of his own weight. 

Steve’s face started to relax, but just some. 

“Yes, yes, that’s it! Come on.” 

Steve gripped both his forearms now, and began to help him over the ledge. “Come on you can do it! You got this!” 

Bucky grunted loudly as he hoisted himself up over the bars, already exhausted from his crying and his emotions taking such a heavy toll on his body. 

Steve had him entirely in his arms and was then pulling him across the railings . . . But his dress shirt managed to get caught on a seam in the bars, and as Steve yanked at his body, it got snagged. 

“I got you, I got you,” Steve murmured in his ear. And when his eyes settled on why he couldn’t seem to pull Bucky up any further – ‘Oh, hell no,’ he thought. He wasn’t going to drop him just because of that stupid shirt. So, he pulled harder, putting the full strength of his legs into play, causing the shirt to rip. And again, miscalculating the boys’ weight (he must have had more muscle than Steve realized) as the shirt suddenly gave way, it caused them both to tip over backwards, with Steve landing nearly on top of Bucky had he not caught himself. 

Bucky let out a loud grunt as his back hit the wood of the deck, but managed a sigh at the sturdy feel of solid ground beneath him once again. They tried to catch their breaths, and Steve righted himself propped up on his elbows as he looked down into those eyes he had grown so fond of in so short a time. 

Bucky looked back up at him, clearly shaken up but just as relieved to be okay. 

“Are you alright? Are you okay?” Steve breathes. 

Bucky nods, his eyes never leaving his. Steve, almost unbelieving, gives him a quick look over, and yes, indeed, he is alright. 

After a moment (yep, he was okay), Steve manages to grunt out a chuckle, shaking his head. Bucky tilts his gaze, silently asking what was so funny. 

“So much for your shirt.” 

Bucky smiles back, and again Steve is just in love with that smile . . . but before he can talk again, they are interrupted. 

‘Again, with this crap?’ Steve thinks. 

Suddenly there are shouts above them, and the sound of clomping boots as guards are rushing over at them - security guards.

“What’s all this?” The lead guard asks when he finally sees what’s laying out before him (literally). 

Steve backs away from Bucky in an instant, realizing only all too late of the . . . precarious position he’d been holding over the young man. And as he opened his mouth to try and defend himself, it was too late as the guards caught sight of Bucky’s torn shirt, and the way he was sprawled out on the ground, Steve’s boots off to the side, and then looking up to Steve himself like . . . like. . .

“Shit . . .” Steve mumbled ot himself. 

“WHAT IS ALL OF THIS?!” The lead guard screamed at him. “STAND BACK, YOU FEIND! STAND BACK NOW, YOU GROTESQUE, VILE LITTLE CREATURE! AND DON’T YOU DARE MOVE A SINGLE INCH!”

Outnumbered four to one, Steve complied, setting his jaw into a firm line as he slowly rose to his feet; Bucky staring on helpless just as much as before as he watched the blond shove his hands in his pockets.

They must have heard Bucky’s scream, and were now rushing to his rescue. 

The thought only made Steve smile, that he had been the one doing the saving, and the others were just going to let him die had Steve not been there. But what else did he expect for daring to go near a blessed member of the upper class? Not only had he just saved his life, but now he was getting right in trouble for it. 

Typical. 

The lead guard spun around to one of the others, “Fetch the master of arms!” He barked out to him. 

With a nod, the smaller guard ran off in the night. 

Steve sniffed, reaching up to wipe his nose as the lead guard spun back around to face him. He knew it was pointless to even try and argue when he was being sentenced as the . . . guilty party, so to speak, and when the guard saw the little smirk that sat about his face, he was hard-pressed to hold his tongue when the man began to go off on him, about things he knew nothing of. 

“You . . . you disgusting, perverted, incongruous thing!” he spat each adjective in Steve’s face. “I could have you hanged for this! The audacity of attempting to pull such a stunt, and in a public place, might I add!” The anger, and rigidity in his voice was palpable, but Steve managed to keep his cool, used to this sort of treatment from anyone who thought they had any sort of authority over him. His smile was wiped clean from his features, and he sat taking whatever sort of punches the man threw his way via words. 

The guard had no idea anything about Steve. He wasn’t grotesque, or perverted, or disgusting in the slightest . . . but this had not been the first time, nor the last that someone will have called him names for the choices he made. Not just by saving Bucky, but on all other accounts. See . . . the guard may have been wrong, but he wasn’t wrong. Steve wished for the longest time growing up that he could just be “normal” and accepted like everyone else . . . thinking something to be wrong with him. But he had eventually discovered that nothing about him was improper, nothing was inappropriate or incorrect with who he was. He came to accept the person he was never going to be, and found his own sense of self-worth and happiness acknowledging that for himself – no longer judging him for the sex he had become attracted to. And though he was more than likely doomed to be alone for the rest of his days, meeting no one of the same – because times like these, no one dared speak out – he refused to give up hope. He knew that someone out there, somewhere, was just like him. And someday, he would be able to call him his own, and be happy, just like every other ‘normal’ person out there. Bceuase he deserved no less, and he believed that. 

Not that he ever dreamed of doing anything like that to this beautiful young man.

And though that lead guard was right on one accord, he was un-justifyingly wrong on the other. Steve would never, ever hurt this man, or any other man for that matter. Never. Never in a million years and with a gun to his head. He just wasn’t like that. Especially to someone who, no doubt, wouldn’t and couldn’t ever possibly feel the same as what Steve was feeling. 

“I swear, I’ll have you punished, hanged, killed for God’s sake, for trying to steal this young man’s innocence! You--”

Steve was even preparing to take more, setting his jaw in a firm line of forced listening, when to his utmost shock, James had risen to his feet and now was trying to grab the guard’s attention.

* * * * * * * * * 

 

Bucky was standing up (though why he didn’t do it sooner, he didn’t know - but why he was doing it at all was still surprising). 

“Sir, hey, sir, please listen to me.” He grappled at his arm that was so freely waving a finger at Steve – who had now taken to having his mouth fall aback open again, eyes wide in clear disbelief. 

The guard was cut off midsentence as he turned to face Bucky, clearly almost having forgotten about the ‘victim’ of the whole ordeal, simply continuing on as if Bucky hadn’t said a thing. 

“Look at him! Of the upper class! How dare you even try to--”

“Sir, no, listen to me--” Bucky tried again, but the man just kept going off, clearly trying to disrespect Steve in the utmost way possible. 

“The severity of this crime is so horrid--”

“No, it wasn’t what it looks like--” Bucky tried again to interrupt in the most formal matter, even grabbing his arm, but the guard just coontined to talk right over him. 

“You must not know what you’re talking about,” He says to Bucky, “you’re in shock!” 

Bucky gets really angry with him then, and tries to convince him, “No, I’m not!” But doesn’t even get the chance to finish that sentence either before the man is facing Steve again. 

“To think that a freak like you--”

And that was it. Bucky had had enough. Not only was he disrespecting Steve in a most unncesssary way, but now directly assaulting himself. And he was so sick of people talking over him and so sick of the way he was treated like a child, and no one heard him or saw him or listening to him, he took it out on the man without giving it second thought. 

“HEY! WOULD YOU JUST SHUT UP FOR A MINUTE!” 

The guard was clearly astonished, finally stopping his endless torrent of criticisms upon Steve to turn and face the young man incredulously. 

Bucky was breathing heavily, his last shred of patience he had somehow accumulated, shot. 

In the silence that followed, Steve wondered whether or not he should help again, but decided against it, still too flabbergasted to nearly move. 

Was this man actually standing up for him? 

The air was thick with tension, and the guard still couldn’t believe it as Bucky backed away, trying again to speak. 

But what else for him to do but get cut off only once again, by everyone else returning with the guard who had gone off earlier to fetch the master, along with the same man Steve had seen steal Bucky’s smile away earlier. 

And he succeeded in doing it again.

And Steve watched Bucky’s entire façade just fall away. He became just as rigid and cold and hard as the icy waters of the Atlantic itself, if not more. 

It sent a shill down Steve’s spine, yet he stayed quiet. 

And if he thought it was hard before to stay quiet around then, it was even harder now.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

The guard had brought not only Winnifred and Rebecca, but Brock as well, along with a slew of pish-posh, corncobs – and even more guards (the latter of which had swiftly pulled out a pair of cuffs to lock Steve’s hands behind his back as the others tended to James, wrapping a blanket around his pallid, pale figure; to which he simply shied away, and shrugged it off angrily, stating that he was fine, and that he wasn’t in shock, yet no one would listen). 

The guards were going off to Steve about what was happening, all the while he was watching that woman tend to Bucky like he was a child, offering him a glass of water that he simply swatted away. Steve noted that it was more than likely his mother, with the way she carried herself and acted towards him. He saw Bucky try to rise up, but another of the guards gently push him back down, stating that he need rest. 

To which Bucky only yelled out, “I’m fine!” 

His mother scoffed under her breath, and uttered at him, “James!” 

He fixed his fiery gaze on her, his mouth pulled taut. 

She didn’t falter under his gaze, but Bucky did see that she knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with speaking to him at this moment. His raw and utter contempt was still very much there, and he still hated her every fiber for his situation, just as much as he hated Brock. 

But she continued, unwilling to be the losing party to this, finishing with, “You will treat these men with respect, they are only trying to help you.” 

Bucky breathed in sharply though his nose, wanting to scream a thousand things at her, like ‘Oh really? You want me to listen to you?’ or ‘So im supposed to treat people with respect when all they ever do is walk over me like im not even there?’, and he nearly did – he nearly did – if it hadn’t been for his sister, which had been standing this entire time prim and proper next to her mother, constantly glancing up at her, awaiting her disapproval and inevitable correction (the sight made Bucky want to vomit), so suddenly broke down in tears, rushing over to throw her arms around his neck. 

Bucky was taken aback, and her mother nearly fainted, scolding her harshly for her actions. 

But the girl refused to let go, now crying, tears streaming freely down her cheeks as she uttered his Bucky’s ear, “I was so scared!”

Bucky’s heart shattered into a million pieces at the sound of her sweet, innocent little tone. 

The only person in his life right now that actually had cared for him, had ever cared for him, now and then, the only person who was scared to lose him. It broke his heart, and made his throat burn as he swallowed and tried to breath in through his mouth to keep from breaking down himself. 

“When that guard came and told us what he saw, I thought that you were . . .” Rebecca’s voice broke in two, only making Bucky feel worse as he closed his eyes, holding her tight and listening intently to every word she spoke, burning them in his heart forever. 

God, he loved her so much . . .

“I thought it was gonna be so bad . . . I thought you might be . . . dead!” With that last word, a million more little tears fell down her face, right onto his torn suit, and her little figure was shaking like crazy. 

Had his eyes been open, the moment would have more than likely killed their mother, who was standing over them like a hawk, disregarding this entire scene with an air of, ‘This is not proper!’

But he didn’t have his eyes open, and he wasn’t to open them, and he knew he have killed her – so he kept his eyes shut, for god’s sake, and just let himself be in only one part of his brain for now, concentrating merely on hugging his little sister, and trying to combat the guilt like he’d never felt before for having wanted to die. 

His dear sister didn’t even know about his suicide attempt, nor would she ever. She had panicked about the thought of him dying – imagine her pain and torture when they would have come to told her that he actually had died, had Steve actually not been there to save him from jumping over the ledge? 

He opened his eyes again to look over at the blond man – the suddenly beautiful blonde man, so strong, so brave, so disrespectful in only the best of ways to have stayed when Bucky commanded him to leave, helping save his life, and for that matter, the life of his sister. He felt an utter sense of gratitude for him, however broken he still may have been on the inside. 

“Well, you might be the one to kill me yourself if you don’t let me breathe!” he chided softly in his sister’s ear, letting his gaze fall back away from Steve and his eyes close again softly as he gave her a light little squeeze. 

He felt her shoulders relax some as she let out a little giggle herself as she backed away and looked into his eyes. He brushed a small, stray hair out of her tear-stained face. 

God, that sweet little face – he couldn’t imagine it being in any more pain, for someone so utterly unimportant as he, if he were to . . .

He shoved that thought away, his eyes watering as he put a finger under her chin to lift her gaze back up to him when her eyes had fallen downcast. 

“Hey,” He cooed. 

She sniffed and looked up to him. 

“I’m right here. I’m okay. I promise. You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy.” 

Though he knew well and true that he almost got rid of himself that easily, he swore then and there that he wouldn’t ever try it again until the day he died (pun intended). He would never kill himself, if only for his sister’s sake, and no one else’s.

She smiled softly at him again before throwing herself back into his arms, giving him a bear-sized hug. Bucky breathed in softly, letting his hand rest on the back of her head, feeling her hair against his palm. 

To think he had almost wanted to leave this little monster . . .

He kissed her head. 

And then, just like everything else in his life, this too was ripped from him, when their mother stepped over, and began to run away at Rebecca’s arm, yanking her away from Bucky’s warm embrace, and chiding softly, “Alright, that’s enough now! Come on! Women do not just throw themselves at men, not even their brothers! Come!”

And just like that, Rebecca was torn away from him, leaving a gaping empty hole in his chest. 

Bucky’s face again reset to his ‘default emotion’, as he watched Winnifred drag her away, but not before she gave him one more smile over her shoulder, and he returned it as sweetly as he could. 

She was the only thing in his world right now that could ever be of any meaning to him. And it wasn’t her fault for the way his life was going. And he knew well and true that if she knew anything, or were it to be in her power at all, that she would be the first in his corner to save him. And he admired her for that.

He wasn’t used to having anyone in his corner, not for any reason, much less even a small one like just simply loving him. 

A single tear ell down his cheek at the words that passed through his head. 

‘Loving him’. 

As if someone actually loved him anymore. 

It hurt to think it, in both ways – if someone did, and everyone didn’t – but he allowed himself a moment more, if only a moment more, to relish in it, knowing all too well that it, too, would be soon taken from him. 

And he was right. 

Finally taking the water that was again tried to be handed him by one of the guards standing around, he actually nodded his thanks though he wouldn’t meet their gaze (he was just as capable of getting up and walking to get his own drink, thank you very much), but with his sister still glancing off to watch from the sidelines as Winnifred continued to go off on her about manners, and etiquette, he lifted the glass in her direction ever so slightly just so she would see, and took a swig. 

Knowing well and true that she was still watching to make sure he was alright. 

And he was. 

At least he would be for her, for now. 

He looked over to where Steve was standing, and the blonde met his gaze. Bucky found that he wanted to get up and rush over there to thank him. Never before had he felt such gratitude for a stranger, much less a person so many stances beneath his class – their eyes locked, even while the cops were still going off on him. 

He had managed to keep a straight face this entire time! 

But his eyes and Bucky’s had locked. 

And it was very brief, just like everything else in Bucky’s life at this point, before it was torn away just as it had been the first time when Brock suddenly sauntered into view – cigarette in hand, and an ugly scowl on his face when he was suddenly stomping across the deck right to Steve. 

Bucky was on his feet in an instant. 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

“This is completely unacceptable!” Brock spat at Steve, contempt raging on his features. 

Steve didn’t flinch in the slightest and didn’t even meet his gaze – just shifted to keep his eyes forward, now, until Brock grew tired of being of ignored for all of about two seconds, and gripped the collar of Steve’s shirt, jerking him around so that Steve was looking directly into his gaze now. 

“What on God’s green earth made you think that you could put your hands on my fiancé?!” 

At this, Steve paused, his eyes widening just slightly. 

Fiancé? Fiancé? 

So that was their connection? 

They were engaged? 

He almost couldn’t believe it but had little time to do much else. He hadn’t realized that his gaze had strayed to Bucky again, when Brock suddenly was shaking him around again (damn, he was strong) like a ragdoll, shouting, “Look at me, you filth!” 

“Brock!” Bucky called out from behind him, coming closer. 

But, as per usual, Brock paid him no mind, continuing to attack Steve whilst everyone else stood by and watched. 

And his name was Brock? 

“What do you think you were doing?!” 

Steve knew better than to say or do anything other than to stand still like a punching bag and just take the hits – but it seemed a little easier being in shock that Bucky was engaged to this . . . this . . . thing. He didn’t even know the guy, and already he could tell you that he was one of those people who, if God had ever made a mistake, he would be it. 

 

* * * * * *

 

“Brock!” Bucky tried again, coming over to tug on his arm. At the sudden, unexpected contact, Brock jerked his head over, some of the rage he had felt for Steve leaking over into his gaze upon Bucky before he quickly covered it up. But Bucky saw it and knew that it had been intentional. 

While everyone else had only seen him calm down for the sake of his husband-to-be, no one ever saw what Brock really was . . . no one ever cared to see. 

“Brock, stop. It was an accident.” Bucky continued as if he hadn’t just seen anything, which they both knew, he had. 

Brock was taken aback for a moment, actually being told what to do by him. Bucky could see the anger pooling behind his eyes, but only someone who truly knew Brock and had seen all of his sides could glimpse it – and Bucky right now, was the only one who could glimpse it. 

“Let him go. It was an accident.” Bucky tilted his chin up slightly, trying to convey sweetness – even throwing in a smile – trying to play Brock’s game for a second, if only to get what he wanted int the end, which in this case, was for Steve to live and not get thrown of the side of the boat himself. Which, at that moment, was the likely answer to the situation.

Brock gave one last glare to Steve, and then looked down to Bucky. The boy kept his gaze serious and unfaltering, but even he was not as strong as Brock yet – and as the larger man gazed at him, a lightbulb seemed to go off in his eyes, and he suddenly smiled. Not a real smile (but to anyone else’s eyes), and simply let go of Steve with a light shove, as if pushing away a dirty piece of clothing and rounding onto Bucky. 

Bucky stood his ground and cocked his head up ever so slightly to look into his eyes.

“An accident?” Brock repeated his words with utter disbelief, and a playful smirk on his features, as if addressing a child. It made Bucky’s fist clench at his sides, but he knew better than to say or do anything else. Brock held a high enough position of authority on this ship from class alone, and knew very well that whatever he said, went. And Bucky knew that if he played wrongly, Steve would be the one swimming tonight. So, he kept his cool, if only for someone else’s sake rather than his own. 

“It was.” Bucky spoke up, his eyes never leaving his Brock’s. 

But when Brock scoffed and looked back towards Steve, Bucky knew it was now or never. 

“I was being stupid, really.” He offered, glancing down somewhat. 

Having shown weakness, having exposed his belly to threats, Brock was all of a sudden interested in the puny weakling before him turning his head back at once to his fiancé. For Bucky to openly admit fault in front of people like this was a new one, and Brock took full advantage of it, listening, if only to use it to his advantage later. Bucky knew this and hated himself for giving Brock so much ammo against him but knew better than to stop now. It wasn’t his life on the line anymore. 

“I was leaning over, and . . . I slipped.” 

Brock stared, unfazed at his words. 

Bucky’s heart raced, and he was so tired, he was running out of words to say, running out of excuses, but by gosh, he was going to try it for all he was worth. He had to say something along some lines that would convince anyone, if not Brock, of Steve’s innocence. He looked over to meet the eyes of the man that had saved his life, silently begging for the help he knew Steve couldn’t give even if he wanted to. 

Steve was too shocked anyway, to do anything other than gape at him. 

“I was leaning so far over, to see the, um . . . The . . . To see the um . . .” Bucky suddenly ran out of words completely, his vocabulary leaving him. He tried to find words, something – anything – that he could grasp at to say, having not thought his sentence entirely through before speaking aloud. Unconsciously, he began to wave his finger around in little circles, closing his eyes briefly and hanging his head slightly, trying in unsuccessful attempts to get his brain to bring up a word to use. 

He couldn’t do it.

He began to panic, but tried desperately not to let it show, though he knew he just may have failed. 

But with an almost audible sigh of relief, he heard Brock utter, “Propellers?” and knew then that just maybe, no one had caught on to his lie just yet. 

“Propellers.” Bucky took the word in an instant and snapped his neck up (probably a little too quickly) to face Brock again. “And I slipped.”

Brock let out a snort at that, but Bucky didn’t give himself the time to get angry before he was continuing – only shocking Steve all the more. 

“And I would have gone overboard and died,” He stressed the word, “but Mr. Rogers here,” He looked over to Steve now, meeting his gaze with the slightest of smiles he forced himself to place upon his face – and Steve was only all too willing to return it – “saved me. Almost going over himself.” 

Steve could hardly believe his ears, his eyes darting back and forth under his long lashes as if looking for the tangible proof he expected to find floating around in the air above them all. This boy was telling a blatant lie, not only to protect himself . . . but giving credit to Steve? He was saving Steve? The blonde’s mind almost couldn’t register it. He continued to stare in half-concealed shock to Bucky, even when the boy tried to slightly open his eyes a little wider at him, trying to convey a hint that just went right over Steve’s head for the moment.

Brock laughed at Bucky, then. And the only reason he knew it was aimed at solely him and not the entirety of the situation, was because of the way he clapped Bucky on the shoulder, instantly making his shoulders stiffen and his face curl up into a ball of tension. He tried to mask his clear disgust but failed at doing so when the unexpected touch was so sudden. Oh, how he hated Brock’s laugh . . . his touch, his smell, the mere sight of the man disgusted him on every level! And he hated it more after Brock began to ‘aww’ and ‘coo’ at him for his utterly embarrassing folly, as if Bucky himself had gone and managed to ruin the entire evening (as if he didn’t realize that he himself already had).

“Aw, Baby Doll,” He laughed aloud, wrapping his arm around Bucky’s arm and pulling hm into his side, rubbing up and down. “You wanted to see the . . .?” He turned to face everyone else surrounding them before continuing, “He wanted to see the propellers!” He chortled another laugh at that, a soft and sweet one to the untrained ear, that merely sounded like he was laughing a child claiming he wanted to sprout wings and fly. Again, it Bucky feel lower and lower and lower, with every breath. It angered him . . . but at this point, with his entire day had been spent with him at the butt-end of every joke, every put-down, every reprimand, every scolding – he felt sadder than anything else. His mind was too tired to feel anger, and reverted to the next available emotion, using up its emergency reserves. Bucky didn’t have the patience right now to care or pretend anymore. He was thoroughly used up and couldn’t take it right now. But he did, he fucking did, because what other choice did he have? 

Doing anything now, and Brock had the power to throw Steve overboard. 

Brock’s laugh only made all the other men standing around join in, and soon everyone was sharing a chuckle at the ‘poor sap’ who ‘was too young to be on deck alone’ . . . everyone, except for Steve Rogers, who currently (to Bucky’s surprise, now) was shooting daggers back at everyone else laughing; his mouth pulled taut.

Having known the real reason why Bucky had come out (if he wasn’t already starting to put together why he even came up with the idea to die in the first place), Steve could hardly keep his mouth shut, but knew his place well and knew it wouldn’t do anyone any good to say anything else. 

Bucky looked over at him with eyes unbelieving, as the master of arms who had just finished laughing himself strode on past them both, circling them like a vulture circling its prey, “Like I’ve said before, children and machinery don’t mix.” 

Another stab at Bucky. 

He could take it, he could take it . . . it’s just for a little bit more, it’s just for a little bit more . . . 

But was it really?

The guard holding Steve’s hands behind his back (as if they weren’t already cuffed there), jerked the man around to look him in the eye, catching Steve off guard and almost making him trip over his own feet. 

“Was that the way of it?” He demanded. 

No. No, that was most certainly not ‘the way of it’, and he knew it. But he also knew that nothing in the world would ever make him utter those words. 

He glanced back at Bucky one more time – meeting the silent, begging plea in the brunet’s eyes as Bucky tried with all his heart to convey a single word through the air between them with his gaze alone.

Please. 

Steve only wished he could have told him that there was a need not even to ask. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that was pretty much it.” He stated, looking to a few of the men in turn. 

Bucky sighed softly to himself, closing his eyes briefly to allow himself to breathe, not realizing until then that he had been holding it. Brock’s arm was still around him, and his chuckling had finally died down – but when the master of arms spoke up, the words made Brock’s grip clench, and Bucky nearly gasped aloud in pain. Not that it hurt too bad – it was mostly out of shock – but it wasn’t like it was pleasant. 

“Well, the boy’s a hero then!” The man nodded, looking from Steve then to Brock as if for approval. 

Brock had yet to take his eyes off the blonde before them; scrutinizing his every move, his every breath. But Steve was a force to be reckoned with – especially when he had reason – and was wearing his best poker face yet; unbreaking. Brock only looked away to shoot a lidded gaze at the man still speaking, allowing Bucky to stare up at Steve again. 

Their eyes met, and Steve smiled at him; knowing well and true that he was conveying very clearly to Bucky that he liked the story. 

And Bucky gave him a warm-hearted smile in return that made Steve’s heart sing. Oh, how he loved that smile! Even more so when it was genuine – and he realized then that the smile he had seen earlier that day – the first ever smile – had been one of relaxation, not because of gratefulness. And one could very easily argue that that made all the difference in the world. This time, he actually smiled. Small, but a smile all the same. 

“Good for you, son.” The master of arms congratulated Steve by patting him on the back. “Well done.” He gestured for the guards behind him to undo the shackles so mercilessly holding the ‘hero’ back, and the men complied only all too easily, their suspicions put to bed. 

“So, it’s all’s well and back to our brandy, eh?” The master barked out a laugh again before turning to walk off. Bucky saw the man walk over to his mother and sister, falling into conversation with them about what had just transpired (as if they didn’t just hear it), before Brock was right there, turning himself and bringing Bucky about face so that he could rub his arms up and down as if to warm him up, looking him in the eye with that venomous smile. 

Bucky had no choice but to meet his gaze now, unless he risked causing a scene that he knew only all too well Brock would end up seeming the hero and Bucky the bratty child – and right now, Steve was the hero. Not him. And Bucky wished there was a way he could have just made that clearer. 

“Look at you, Baby Doll.” Brock cooed at Bucky, grabbing both his arms now in only the sweetest gesture. “You must be freezing.” 

It was true – Bucky’s blood was ice . . . but it was for anything but with the weather. 

He wanted to vomit. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take tonight. 

“N-no,” he stammered, “I’m goo--”

“Come on,” Brock said after rubbing Bucky’s arms several times in his attempts to warm him up, not even paying any mind that he had just been trying to talk. He didn’t have the need to even finish his sentence for Bucky to know that he was telling him to follow him back inside, right now.

To Bucky, he was simply reminding everyone within sight that he was his. That Bucky belonged to him. It was as if he was marking him as his territory so that no one else would be able to come near, branding him like a piece of furniture. A piece of jewelry that he could show off, but no one else could touch. And then he was turning Bucky around, keeping him safely tucked under a rather large arm as he began to walk away amongst the crowd of guards, leaving Steve to finish getting uncuffed by the strangers. 

But Bucky couldn’t take it, he just couldn’t do it. Leaving Steve like that, without so much as recognition that he had just saved his life – something he would never be able to repay him for the remainder of his days – and Bucky decided to try one last thing, as one last final resort for the day. 

He was already in enough trouble – what was one more thing added to the pile? 

He stomped his foot down, almost making Brock fall forward. He then plastered on the fakest, most disgustingly innocent smile he could muster, and looked back to Steve. 

“And, what? Are we just to leave him there, just like that? After he’s saved my life?” 

Brock glared at him almost like never before, his eyes alight and blazing with fury. His little show dog had just spoken up to him when not spoken to – how was he supposed to react?  
And Bucky didn’t stop this time. He knew well and true and this was going to come back and bite him right in the butt later, but he didn’t stop. 

He felt Brock’s grip on his arm tighten like a vice, until it was the point where it almost was painful this time – and he uttered softly (through gritted teeth), “Of course,” (as if he’d almost forgotten) Then he turned, plastering on a smile for the whole of the world to see, “Mr. Lovejoy, I think a 20 should about do it.” And then gripped Bucky’s arm to continue walking again. 

But Bucky would have none of it. He stomped his foot down again, and he thought Brocks’ gaze this time alone could have caused the very world to come to an end. 

I am going to die for that ‘Steve’, he thought. 

“Is that the going rate, for saving the man you love?” Bucky questioned, with feigned innocence. He had used this card often tonight, and it had worked well enough so far . . . he knew he was really pushing it now, but had no other choice in the company of all these strangers. And when all the eyes around them landed directly on Brock, Bucky knew just what he had done to himself. 

It both scared, and elated him. 

The older man shifted his weight around, licking the inside of his mouth to form a sort of scathing smile as he released his grip on Bucky’s arm – confusing the boy for a moment. 

“James is displeased.” He stated softly, his words not matching his body language in the slightest. His manners were maddening, when Bucky knew well and true that he was infuriated. “What do to . . . what to do?” He smiled then at the brunet, daring him to say something else – daring him to say anything but ‘oh, no, darling; I’m not displeased. You’re right. Let us go inside now.’ Just like a good little boy. 

But Bucky had never been a good little boy.

And he didn’t have the patience right now to care or pretend anymore. So he took the freedom of the opportunity of having his arm back, and then walked off towards Steve who had taken to just placing his coat back on his shoulders and slipping on his shoes again. Brock followed Bucky with blazing eyes, and a rigid jaw. But Bucky completely and unreservedly ignored him, going directly over to Steve to stand just a few feet in front of him. 

“Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening?” He asked the blonde before he had time to think and mull over just exactly wat consequences he was bringing down upon himself. But why not? Why not just do anything? He always got in trouble, got chastised for anything he did anyway – so, what was the difference? He continued. 

“To delight our group, with your heroic tale.” Bucky offered a smile at Steve then, but it was devoid of any and all meaning; absolutely nothing like his previous smile he had shared. This smile was purely for the intention of proving a point and sending home the message that he wasn’t the least bit scared or intimidated. Which he felt nothing but. 

Bucky only met Steve’s gaze for a second before he was looking around to the other men around them, as if offering the idea to them as well. 

He could feel Brock’s eyes boring holes into his back. 

But he didn’t care, and then only did something else, adding to his pile. 

He turned on his heel, pivoting softly – throwing a smile right back at Brock as he played the innocence card for the last time this night with a smirk of defiance such as he knew he’d never displayed before. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, darling?” 

He had just managed to land a punch on Brock – on the devil himself! – knowing well and true that he had the man cornered in front of all these people. Knowing that he had absolutely no reason to turn down the idea of Steve coming to dinner, without risking looking like a fool, and it felt like the most liberating thing in the world. He hadn’t realized it, but his smile had shifted into something more real, unable to contain the joy that suddenly washed dover him briefly, in the smallest dose at the sight of Brock’s face of unalloyed and wholesome disbelief that Bucky had such nerve, such audacity to actually do something like this. Brock’s smile twitched, and it only made Bucky feel better and better. 

He actually had him cornered. He actually had won this battle!

And then, Brock giggled softly. 

The sound was anything but sweet, and instantly, Bucky found that he regretted saying and doing everything he just had. He tried to stand completely still and unfazed as Brock straightened himself proudly, taking slow, deliberate steps towards his fiancé; their chests bumping, they were now so close. 

His mouth went dry; he gulped. 

Brock sighed softly – so utterly, utterly softly, as if he were afraid of shattering Bucky like he was the softest glass to yet exist in this world and reached up to pinch Bucky’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting his face to meet his gaze. He had to keep up appearances, Bucky knew. 

Appearances. 

He could care less what Bucky saw or thought of him. 

He looked into his eyes with a silent threat, as if to say, “say one more thing, and I will personally have you slaughtered like a pig”, but merely only spoke, “Of course, Baby Doll. I would so much enjoy that. But you mustn’t be so rude.” He chuckled under his breath, and Bucky resisted the urge to shiver in disgust. 

Brock kept his hand in place under his chin, but looked over to Steve then, shooting daggers at the blonde. “You can’t just invite someone, who no doubt, has plans of their own.” 

Bucky kept his eyes fixed on a stray fuzzy on Brock’s shirt collar, but his body betrayed him again, letting his eyes shift over to Steve, holding his breath again as they both awaited his answer.

Steve stood silently, having only just fixed his coat again, and met Brock’s unfaltering gaze with one of his own. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. A chance to not only be around Bucky again, but to sit at a table with him, in the upper class? It sounded too good to be true . . . but Steve wasn’t stupid, he could very easily see the silent dare in the older man’s gaze, to say yes; to agree to Bucky’s invitation. His gaze was meant fo only Steve to see, and Steve wasn’t stupid. He knew well and true that he was telling him to say no, and leave. Telling him to drop everything and go. 

But Steve had never been one to shy away from danger, now, had he? 

“Sure.” He agreed enthusiastically, with a grin. “I’d love to. Ain’t no problem. Count me in.” 

He saw Bucky’s shoulders relax just some, and the brunet’s eyes close for just an instant in an extended blink; as Brock’s jaw flinched and his smile disappeared. He knew he had probably just made the biggest mistake in his life, but right then, didn’t care. Bucky wanted him to come, and come he shall. 

He wasn’t stupid. 

He could see that he was being used merely to prove a point to the older man – but after witnessing everything he just had (how was anyone else not seeing this?!), he couldn’t be prouder to be doing so. Though he didn’t know completely, the entire story behind Bucky and Brock, he was starting ot piece together the true nature of the man before him so possessively holding Bucky’s chin. And he didn’t like the feel of it, not one bit.

But Brock’s smile was back in place before a moment’s hesitation, and he turned back to Bucky. 

“Well . . .” He began, barely audible. 

Bucky met his gaze and threw his last bit of mustering courage into his gaze; even though he knew Brock could see right through him. 

“It’s settled then.” 

He gave Bucky’s chin a light pinch before letting his hand finally fall away, and Bucky’s heart screamed. 

Something wasn’t right here . . . something was so very, very definitely wrong. Brock never backed down from a fight, and Bucky had just won this battle. Why was he so calm, so collected, so reserved so as to appear nonchalant like it really didn’t matter that Steve was coming to dinner? He knew that he had to keep up appearances, but even this was a new level of odd, even for Brock. What had Bucky missed? 

But as soon as Brock’s arm landed on his again, and he leaned in to the boys’ ear – his stubble brushing against the side of his face, making him squirm – Bucky knew what he missed. 

He knew full, fucking well, what he missed. 

“Six days.” Brock uttered for his ears alone. 

And his heart sank lower than his feet; past the deck, past the waters, right down into the floor of the ocean itself. He realized only then what he had just brought onto himself – probably weeks, and weeks, and years of torture for embarrassing him like that in front of other people. He heard the silent threat in those three little words and knew that Brock knew that he knew that he was in for a world of hurt come the day of the marriage . . . hell, probably tomorrow night if he had the chance. Bucky found that he regretted having taken a hit at the man, but what else was he to do? Cower down like a dog for the rest of his days? Either option at this point only brought him more pain . . . so why not go for the one that had a slightly better outcome on Bucky’s mental health? 

And when the man backed away, he looked into Bucky’s eyes one more time, a whole other wave of fear washed over Bucky, so that he was petrified.

Brock had seen right through the lies. 

He knew it as much as if Brock had just flat out said it himself. 

His heart screamed under the pressure, but he forced himself to keep as much cool as he could, fear settling deep into his bones and his soul and his very inner being. He just had to keep telling himself, that even if Brock saw through the make-believe story he’d been fed, he wouldn’t ever, ever be able to put together that Bucky had tried to commit suicide . . . he was smart, but the mere thought of someone as spoiled as Bucky pulling a stunt so plainly stupid just wasn’t plausible. So, he knew he was safe there. If only in one area of his life. 

For now. 

And he knew that this little charade was better than forgotten. And he knew he would be paying for this eventually, and wishing he was dead, but at least he had gotten a hit, a single, solitary hit in, just for once in his life, if never again. And he felt it break him down, and he closed his eyes, and wanted to cry all over again, he was just too tired for anymore of this tonight . . . 

And Brock saw all of this splatter across his face, as clearly as the sun in midday, and took advantage of the poor boy’s moment of weakness from the day’s events, pulling him into his side again. 

Bucky knew he was trying to play off his care for the boy, but he knew he wasn’t, and Bucky knew he knew he knew he wasn’t. But he couldn’t bring himself to care very much right then. It was tiring and exhausting trying to keep up the façade of uncaring and unhurt all the time. And with his tiredness creeping in and threatening to crumble the walls that he kept so erect in his mind to keep him shielded from everyday threats at all times, he just allowed himself to be dragged as Brock pulled him along and began to make his way back towards the warm inner confinements of the Titanic – before Bucky could say or do anything else that would otherwise undermine him. 

But not before Bucky had managed a single, solitary glance, just one more time, at the blonde; the man who had saved his life. And for some odd reason, he felt a sort of satisfaction at the prospect that he was undoubtedly going to be seeing him tomorrow. 

Only from winning against Brock, he was sure. 

And then another sickening through struck a blow against him - what if Brock tried to sabotage Steve’s coming? What if he didn’t let him come, or otherwise prevented Steve from showing up? 

Oh, listen to yourself! Bucky argued internally. If Steve was that easy to persuade, he wouldn’t have agreed to come in the first place! Bucky had seen the look on his face and knew very well that Steve knew that Brock had threatened with his eyes – and yet, Steve still agreed to come to dinner, blatantly only driving the dagger further in where Bucky couldn’t. It made him feel . . . It made him feel acknowledged again, as if someone out there really did care about what he thought. That someone out there actually heard him. 

He was just tired, and his mind was on overdrive, and he just needed to calm down . . . he was too tired to fight anymore right now, and just allowed himself a final glance back at the young man, who looked concernedly at him with a smile. But Bucky didn’t have the strength to return it, simply accepting the fact that he wasn’t going to get thrown overboard, and losing the thrill of having gotten a punch in at Brock, and just following emotionlessly as they shuffled him back to bed, listening to his mother drone on as she always did about how absurd it was, the whole ordeal, and how she guessed she was thankful for that man to have saved his life, and her voice just began to become noise in his ears as she and Rebecca fell into step beside them; walking away, with everyone else around following. 

 

* * * * * * *

 

And Steve was left standing there, watching Bucky walk off. He saw him wrap an arm around the young girl walking alongside him and tousle her hair before they fully disappeared around a corner. 

And what confused him more, was that as he watched him walk off, he realized his thoughts were worse than before. 

Before, it had been him simply wanting to see him, or at least see if he was alright. Now? Now, he only wanted to be near him all the more, without even realizing it. But Bucky was okay . . . so why on earth was he feeling that? He was going to get to see him tomorrow – at a dinner, imagine that – so, why was he still feeling so strongly about needing to see if he was alright? He couldn’t hardly believe the entire scene he had just witnessed – much less, had been a party of – and with his mind a racing mess, he needed a quick way to calm himself down . . . not to mention that his last attempt had been somewhat wasted when he threw it into the water. 

He whistled softly to get the master of arm’s attention before he walked completely out of ear-shot as well. 

The man stopped walking abruptly and darted a look Steve’s way as the blonde waved him over with a hand, asking once he got closer, “Can I bum a smoke?” 

The man came over and talked to him, looking at him as if he were a talking zebra, and actually had the nerve to grumble before he closed his eyes dramatically before thrusting his hand out and offering his case to Steve. 

Steve simply pretended he hasn’t seen and continued on as if nothing happened, taking an extra one from the case to tuck one behind it ear as he stuck the other between his teeth and reached into his pockets for the matches. 

“You’ll want to tie those,” The man suddenly shifted on his heels for a light bounce, his eyes landing on Steve’s shoes. Steve followed his gaze down to his shoelaces that lay freely about his feet in a haphazard mess. 

“It’s interesting,” The man continued, and Steve’s gaze shot back up to him, “that the young man slipped so suddenly, and yet . . . you still had the time to remove your jacket and your shoes.” 

His threat was left implied, and Steve knew he knew better than to believe the story that Bucky had told as he turned and walked off. 

Steve tongued the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

What the actual fuck just happened? 

 

********

 

Bucky sat in his room.

Unable lie flat on his back for fear of feeling like an exposed bird ready to be pounced upon, but too weak to stand, he was caught at a crossroads, somewhere between a half-lie and a half-propped up stance. It wasn’t safe to lie completely down, but it wasn’t safe to stand up, either . . . it wasn’t safe anywhere. 

His maid Virginia had run up to his side, asking he own slew of questions as she looked him over with an expression akin to worry he had first walked in. It would have almost made him smile had he not been so frightfully fearful of Brock who he had managed by sheer luck to get ahead of. As soon as his servant Schmidt had come up to ask a question, Brock mistakenly let go of Bucky’s arm, and turned to face him – giving Bucky the split-second chance he needed to bolt for his room; racing in and slamming the door behind him, making sure to lock it this time. 

No repeats of earlier, thank you very much. 

And Virginia – the poor soul – had just been going out, but upon having seen him, her eyes grew wide; her blonde hair framing her face in a pretty picture of composure had he not just startled her. 

After asking questions about what had happened, and Bucky telling her the same lie he had told everyone else (though he, oddly enough, found he almost wanted to tell her the truth . . . knowing that she wouldn’t ever tell anyone else. But he decided against it after consideration – you don’t ever give anyone any extra ammo that could be used against you later). News travelled fast on this hunk of wood and metal, and he was almost surprised at how she had even come to know of his going out on deck, and the ‘near death experience’. 

God, what had that stupid guard told everyone? That he had been raped senseless, and was laying there bloody on the ground? 

Probably. Just because people like him weren’t accepted. His . . . kind, just wasn’t normal. Nor did he ever think it would ever become. Once that guard thought that Steve had been making unwanted advances on him, Bucky could just picture the thrill on his evil, grinning little face as he ran to tattle to everyone, just to watch Steve get in trouble . . .

The irony of that, being that Steve wasn’t even the one who they needed to worry about. 

Bucky had reassured Virginia that everything was alright, even after his moment’s hesitation. She knew very well that he was hiding something, but it wasn’t in her place to poke or snoop for info, so she settled with his story and accepted yet another lie when he told her that he was really tired and preferred to get some rest. 

He allowed her to leave with the freedom of the rest of the night, or rather, whatever was left of it – telling her to go and get herself a drink or something. 

“Take a break,” He had told her, mustering up the last bit of friendliness he had left in him. It wasn’t much, and he couldn’t even smile – but at least he sounded somewhat sincere. 

She wasn’t too perturbed by it, though. She knew a lot about a great many things and didn’t blame him for his actions. Simply nodding, she wished him a good night and exited the room; probably even knowing that he was just asking her to be alone. 

Bucky wouldn’t put it past her. She was a smart one. 

He locked it before she was even fully out, knowing inside that he would have to face Brock sooner or later – but preferably later . . . after he’d had some sleep. 

If he could get any. 

And now there he was, sitting on his bed, his eyes locked on the door, as if waiting for Brock to just magically burst through at any minute, to either hit him or hurt him, or both. But he knew that he wouldn’t. It would cause a ruckus and damage his so untarnished appearance. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we? 

Bucky sighed to himself, his back aching for rest, and his palms sore from gripping that railing to tightly. He looked down to them and gave them a small rub before deciding that he was overthinking things and forced himself to lay down on his back. But he kept his eyes on the door. 

The book that he had thrown earlier was now laying still and closed on his bedside table. He debated reading it to pass some time. 

Nah . . .

Ugh, he grumbled. He was too awake to go to sleep, but to sleepy to stay awake. He tried to distract his mind. 

He thought about Steve again, and how that man had saved his life. How thankful he was, actually, that he hadn’t listened to him. The only time, he was sure, that he had ever been thankful for someone not listening to him. 

And he found that odd – that he had been heard, yet not listened to. 

It helped give him something to hang on to as he drifted off to sleep for that night, completely exhausted and filled with dread for the coming day, knowing that when he awoke, it would only be six days until he was James Buchanan Rumlow, and everything he knew and cared about would die, just like his father, just like him, just like his name;

Bucky. 

 

* * * * * * * * * 

Steve found his way back to his room – 360 – and stopped at the doorway, brows furrowed and breathing off. 

His mind raced with the events that had just happed, and he almost couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He wouldn’t have believed it, had he not been there to witness the entire thing himself. It was a spectacle . . . a spectacle that he had been a part of and was going to continue to be a part of until tomorrow evening. 

He found that he was rather looking forward to going, even if only a little and even if he wasn’t technically welcome. But knowing that only made him want to go more! Bucky had invited him to prove a point to his Brock – his fiancé (?) – that much had been clear . . . but as to the why, Steve still couldn’t figure out the details, but seeing as how he had seen just a sliver of that evil glare when it had been cast in his direction, he could make a guess that it was because he wanted someone there with him. But why he would pick Steve was beyond him. Maybe it was just because he was the only one there at the time. 

Probably. 

Fiancé . . . Brock was his fiancé? That was so hard to believe! How and why? Why? He was so much older than Bucky . . . it was almost gross. No, not almost – it was gross. And the very air about the man . . . the very way he had held Bucky’s chin betwixt his fingers . . .? 

It made Steve shiver. 

He had seen enough of that man to already feel wholly disgusted by him, and he didn’t even know him. He chided himself for it, telling himself that he didn’t know the full story. He hated judging people by first glance, but something told him that this guy would be different. He just seemed . . . off. And with that guy as Bucky’s fiancé, he now more than ever felt the sudden need that Bucky needed to be helped . . . he just knew it. He knew that there was something there . . . the way they had spoken to each other, the words they had used . . . Maybe he hadn’t been too far off in his feelings of needing to make sure the boy had been alright. Maybe no one else ever did.

He sighed loudly and reached up to rub his eyes dramatically before opening the door slowly, so as not to wake the still-sleeping passengers within. Including that of his friend, Sam.

Sam was snoring loudly still, oblivious to everything that had just happened. Steve could have envied him . . . his mind free to get some much-needed rest . . . but couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He was happy about what had happened . . . just, at the same time . . . there was something else thrown into the mix.

It was something that almost felt like . . . like . . .

Ahhhhh, he wasn’t sure. He gave up trying to think about it anymore, blaming it on his tired mind. He had been tired before going out to the deck, let alone now. He tried to distract himself, but his thoughts wondered right back to that beautiful face, and that stunning smile that he had caught a glimpse of – three times! – before it disappeared fast as a shooting star yet again. 

And perhaps it had been the way Bucky had been silently begging for someone to pull him back over the ledge when he had been out there; perhaps it had been the smallest smile that had been cast his way, making his heart sing with joy; or perhaps it had been the way that Bucky had so gallantly disrespected in the most polite and mannered way, that of his fiancé’s wishes. Perhaps it was just the plain and simple fact that Steve wanted to see him again, and saw this an opportunity to help, somehow, however that was possible, by his coming; or perhaps it was the plain and simple fact that Steve wasn’t tired. 

Whatever the reason he may have very well wanted it to be, Steve already knew the real answer that rested well and deep within his heart.

He was going to get some sleep at one point or another tonight, but his mind was racing now more than ever, and he found that funny as he chuckled softly to himself when a thought crossed his consciousness:

That the very thing he had gone out to deck for, was now the very thing making it worse. 

 

* * * * * * * *

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE REMEMBER TO COMMENT IF YOU LIKED THIS, SO I KNOW IF I SHOULD KEEP GOING!!!  
> MUCH LOVE EVERYBODY :) :)
> 
> Updates about every two weeks or so :)


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